Join the Club
by HashtagLEH
Summary: Homeless and mute after everything Peter has been through, he somehow makes friends with Deadpool, as Spiderman. And then he meets the Avengers, as Peter. Or, alternatively: "Spidey and Deadpool: the Mute and the Motormouth" (a title by Deadpool).
1. Chapter 1

**I really shouldn't start another fic before I finish at least one of my WIPs. But...I couldn't resist.**

**Trigger warnings: panic attacks, brief mention of drive-by shooting, attempted rape of minor characters, past sexual abuse (because Winter Soldier is not a child's bedtime story)**

**Also, the fics that this one was inspired by: Reintroducing Hope (on Ao3) is definitely one of my Top Fives, possibly with Spot #1. Weak Spots (also on Ao3) is basically porn, so if that's your thing go for it, but it is not anything like Reintroducing Hope or even like this fic. However, I took some elements from that one that will show up MUCH later in the fic (if at all - haven't quite decided yet how much time this fic will span), so here I am, giving credit where credit is due. :)**

* * *

Peter sighed, flopping down heavily to rest on the ledge of the building. He had a few more minutes before he could really allow himself to go patrol, and he took the opportunity to rest a minute before he took off. Once the sun had set a little further over the horizon there would be an increase in the crime for the night, and he needed to conserve energy while crime was practically nonexistent. Or, as nonexistent as it could be in a place like New York City.

He felt and heard his stomach growl at him as he sat there. Really, if he had been having any kind of regular food intake he wouldn't be so worried about the night ahead being super tiring. In recent weeks most of the crimes he'd stopped had been fairly easy – attempted robberies, rapes, muggings, car thefts, and the like. Once upon a time, that had been nothing.

But now, he was always tired. He knew that it was thanks to his lack of real nutrition, combined with his Spidey powers trying to keep him up and running at 500% when he only had enough food for about 50%.

He'd had a half eaten hot dog thrown his way that afternoon, though – a businessman apparently in a rush and couldn't eat the rest of it. Peter felt lucky that he'd been the first homeless person the guy had come across – and before a trash can, because he knew that's basically what most people saw him as. Homeless people got leftovers, and that was it. Only the unwanted things, never a full meal.

Because of this, Peter was really getting tired of New York hot dogs. Which was a shame, because once upon a time they'd been his favorite thing. Now he could see the amount of tourists that tried out the infamous snacks and decided they didn't like them.

"Hiya, Spidey!"

Peter sighed silently to himself, lips tugging slightly upward at the familiar voice behind him. It looked like it would be a bit longer than he'd expected before he went to patrol – these visits tended to last a good hour. It would be completely dark by the time Peter began his patrol. He didn't move as the infamous Merc with a Mouth plopped down next to him, holding a bag that smelled _delicious_.

"I brought Mexican," Deadpool greeted, passing over one of the bags and keeping the other for himself. Peter couldn't bring himself to feign any kind of politeness, and immediately dove into the bag to bring out a 9-layer burrito. Deadpool wasn't any better though, already having lifted his mask to his nose and shoving a soft taco into his mouth, lettuce falling out to land unheeded on his lap.

"I think half the time I bring food, you're hungrier than I am, and I didn't think that possible," Deadpool said through his mouthful of food, glancing at Peter with a smirk.

Peter made a vague gesture that could either be interpreted as _'long day' _or something obscene, more focused on unwrapping the second burrito in his hands than anything else. Now, at least, he would have some energy before his patrol. Not as much as he would if he were eating on a consistent, regular basis, but beggars couldn't be choosers. And Peter would certainly consider himself a beggar, now.

Deadpool understood his gesture though, because while people underestimated him thanks to his immature attitude and definite mental problems, he was actually very smart and intuitive. He'd have to be, with his job, but Peter appreciated it more than he could say when trying to speak made his throat close with panic.

"Don't I know it, Spidey," Deadpool laughed in response to Peter's gesture. "I came across this guy in Bolivia last week – he was a serial rapist, so I unalived him – oh, don't give me that disapproving look! He's a bad guy, and the world is better off without him in it. But, interesting fellow. He had a pet goat, and you know they eat goats down there of course, but this guy treated the goat like it was his child! Or at least like a pet dog. Anyway, he had no intention of eating it, is my point. And I was all scary and menacing, of course – he knew why I was there – and he just kept babbling about Guadalupe (that's his goat's name) and how she had eaten too much and he needed to clean up her barf. Funny, because I didn't know that goats could barf! Goats are creepy. Have you seen their eyes? Their pupils are shaped like squares. I once had a goat head butt me on a job – not Guadalupe though, because she was busy throwing up and didn't care about me – and I had to re-grow little-Deadpool back. I'm convinced it grew back bigger though, so I really have to thank that yak for its stupidly sharp and pointy horns. Still creepy animals, though. Now, unicorns I can get behind. They've got the sharp and pointy horn, but they're these sweet little creatures that absolutely exist and fuck the world for calling them 'mythical'. _No_, I have not seen one, but they only approach virgins, and I lost _my _V-card well over a decade ago. What about you, Spidey? You turned in your V-card yet? I am more than willing to help your perky butt through this. But first, we'll find a unicorn. I need a selfie with one, dammit! Imagine how great that would look on my Twitter page."

Peter let Deadpool's babble wash over him, while the merc went from one topic to the other with no pause, forgetting about the original intent of his story in the first place. But Peter didn't mind. Although Deadpool asked him questions, he didn't expect an answer most of the time, which Peter was relieved about. He'd only been around Deadpool a handful of times as Spiderman, but the man was surprisingly laid back and fun to be around – not at all what he heard from the rumors about the fast-talking mercenary.

He remembered the first time they'd ended up on the same roof. Deadpool had already been up there, and Peter had climbed up there after stopping a robbery, not noticing the guy until he'd spoken.

"Welcome to the Red Club, Spidey!" was the first thing Deadpool had said to him, clapping his hands excitedly. Peter had been so startled by the other man's sudden presence that had it not been for his Spidey powers he would have fallen right off the roof. He'd caught himself though, peering trepidatiously at the excitable other man in red and black, katanas strapped to his back and countless guns slung about his person. Despite this, the man's stance was relaxed and unthreatening, resembling a child more than he did a deadly killer.

"Mine's Kevlar, but it's okay that yours is spandex," Deadpool went on as though nothing was weird about this. "I mean, with an ass like that, spandex is the perfect frame! No physical protection, but baddies would be way too shocked at the amazing bod that they'll just give up right there. And, protection – right there! The important part is red. Now, I chose mine because it hides blood _really _well, but you're like, super hippie and nonviolent, so why your color choice? I can't think of any spider that's red and blue, but maybe I haven't been on Google enough. Yellow, take that down – research red and blue spiders. No, not like Spiderman – _actual _spiders. White, explain to him – I'm talkin' to Spidey, here." Deadpool had turned his white eyes back to Peter, clasping his hands in a pleading gesture.

"Tell me your secrets, Spidey! What is in that beautiful brain of yours? _Why the red and blue?!_"

Peter, of course, had been unable to say anything, and he tried. He tried to open his mouth, instinctively, to answer the question that came his way, but, of course, his throat had closed up and panic had crawled up his spine, making him feel claustrophobic and like he couldn't breathe. It was impossible for him to get a word out, and he didn't know how to convey this to the masked mercenary.

"Oh-em-gee," Deadpool said after a brief moment where he had clearly realized that Peter wasn't saying anything. "I thought The Man had tricked everyone into thinking you didn't talk now. I'm not used to being wrong. Shut up, White – it's true. This is like a fucking sitcom – no, really! I'm literally called 'the Merc with the Mouth', and you're mute. We _should _make a sitcom about this. Or a fanfiction! Yellow, write this down. Deadpool and Spidey – no! Spidey and Deadpool: the Mute and the Motormouth. Is motormouth a compound word? I don't know – we'll figure that out later. The alliteration is nice, anyway. That's okay, Spidey. You don't have to talk – I can do enough talking for both of us! Wait – we need power for this. You like Mexican, Spider-babe?"

And after that, whenever Deadpool was in New York he popped by and caught up with Peter. Most of the time he brought food, because Deadpool was always hungry. Peter was grateful, because that's where most of _his_ food came from.

Deadpool didn't know who he was, though. The most Deadpool had ever seen of Peter's face was when he lifted the mask to his nose to eat, and he always rolled it right down into place after. Deadpool made some comment about his baby face, but Peter was pretty sure the guy didn't suspect that he was only a couple of months from being seventeen. Peter knew enough about him that he was positive that the guy wouldn't be making the overt sexual advances and innuendos to a minor. Flirting, sure. But not with the blatant attitude that Deadpool showed him.

Peter didn't mind it, though. After a couple of times meeting with the guy, he'd concluded that Deadpool wasn't dangerous to him – only the bad guys. This included killing as well as anything sexual. He trusted Deadpool enough to know that the mercenary wouldn't even _kiss _him without clear permission, and if he was wrong about that, he knew that the guy would back off if Peter made his denial clear.

But, back to the original point. Deadpool didn't know who he was. Not his name, not his face, not his age, and _definitely_ not that he was homeless. So, he knew that Deadpool only brought food because…well, because it's what he did. And he had guessed that Peter had a healing factor and with it enhanced metabolism, so he always brought enough to feed about six normal people. He didn't bring it because he _pitied _Peter for being homeless and starving, and Peter wanted to keep it that way. The great Spiderman, homeless? Peter didn't want that kind of reputation attached to the superhero's name.

He'd only actually, _officially _met the mercenary about three months beforehand. He'd been aware of him since he was fifteen, hearing about him about six months after he became Spiderman. But it was more whispers then, and none of them spoke of good news. Certainly none of them implied that he would actually _welcome _Deadpool's company.

Granted, Peter _still _didn't hear the best things about Deadpool, but now he'd met him and he could differentiate rumors from truth. Oh, sure – Deadpool was definitely not all there, and yes he killed people for money…but as far as Peter could tell, the ones Deadpool killed were ones who deserved it. Or at least were terrible criminals. Peter was hard-pressed to judge the guy. Peter himself could never kill a rapist; it just wasn't his style. But Deadpool had no compunctions about it, so Peter decided to hell with it. He decided that he would never let Deadpool kill someone while he was there, but he didn't feel like he was a villain to be stopped – not like the world made him out to be.

He'd only spent time in Deadpool's presence a small handful of times, but it made him wonder what the mercenary was like when he was dangerous and doing his job. Because he'd never seen anything except lightheartedness and joking from the guy. Surely that was a front though, because there was no way he had become as infamous as he had as a mercenary without a scary persona.

But then again, maybe his actions spoke louder than words and people cared more about the bloody results than the manner the mercenary had gone about getting them.

Peter forced his thoughts away from the dark path they'd gone down, tuning back in to Deadpool's rambling.

"…So then I said, 'no way!' And she was like, 'yeah, I'm gonna fuck you up!' And I was like, 'aw, _hell_, no. _No one_ messes with Ursula!' And long story short, Ursula died and now I'm on the hunt for a Jamaican lady missing a finger, and another house cactus. I'll name it Ursulason, because it's like Ursula 2.0 now." He shoved the last of his final taco into his mouth, briskly brushed his hands over the bottom half of his face to get rid of any crumbs, and then pulled the mask back into place.

"So, Spidey!" he said excitedly, jumping back to his feet, unable to remain still for too long. He bounced on the balls of his feet like a child asking their parent permission for something and just couldn't wait for the answer. That was an odd mental image for Peter to consider. Someone like Deadpool – dressed like him, but a woman, wearing an apron and standing in the kitchen, looking at a smaller Deadpool while the boy just couldn't contain himself. Peter shoved the image away – it was just _weird_, if amusing.

Deadpool went on, "You up for a patrol partner tonight?!"

Peter paused with the last of his burrito coming toward his mouth. Deadpool…wanted to patrol with him? He'd never expressed a desire like this before, mostly just spending time with him during or after Spiderman's nightly patrols. At least it explained why Deadpool had found him so early in the evening, however. He must've planned this.

Peter squinted his eyes in thought, turning his head to peer up at Deadpool, giving him a questioning look. _Why _did Deadpool want to come with him? Their styles were _very _different. And Deadpool knew that Peter didn't approve of the killing.

Deadpool mistook his questioning frown for a frown of disapproval however, and quickly jumped to reassure him.

"I won't unalive anyone tonight Spidey, I promise!" he exclaimed. "I can't promise no maiming, because I don't really know _how _to not do that, but – I'll be good! You can be my teacher! I'll follow your lead!"

Peter shoved the last bite of burrito into his mouth, tilting his head consideringly. He still wasn't sure of Deadpool's motive, but he didn't think it was likely he was going to get a clear answer out of him tonight. But his desire didn't seem to be malicious, at least, so Peter decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Shrugging, he gave Deadpool a thumbs-up, interrupting the mercenary's continued rambling about something with following his lead on the streets _and_ in the bedroom – Peter wasn't really sure he wanted to know. Deadpool gave a victorious cheer, and Peter stopped him by making a cutting motion with his hand. When he was sure he had the merc's attention, he pointed two fingers at his eyes and then at Deadpool.

"Ooh, Spidey, you can watch me as long as you want," Deadpool purred. Peter rolled his eyes, tugging his mask back over his face and shoving the bag with two more burritos and three tacos into the corner of the roof to keep them safe for after his patrol.

"Whoa, Spidey!" Deadpool exclaimed, sounding offended. "Why on earth are you wasting such precious food from the gods?!"

Peter flapped his hand dismissively, hoping that his gesture would be able to translate roughly into _'for later'_. When Deadpool didn't remove his hands from his cheeks, eyes still wide with a comical and probably (though maybe not, knowing Deadpool) exaggerated amount of shock, Peter sighed and motioned to the bag of food. Then he moved his arms like he was about to shoot webs, before he clutched his stomach and mimed vomiting.

"Oh my _gawd_, are you telling me that Spidey – the one who does acrobatics and flips and swings from the skyscrapers of New York – gets _motion sick_?!" Deadpool sounded an odd mix of surprised and delighted.

Peter sighed. Sometimes Deadpool was really good at figuring out what he meant, but other times, like now, Peter really wished he was able to speak and explain clearly what it was, exactly, he was trying to say. He pointed to the food again, and then spread his hands in a gesture that could universally be translated to mean 'large'.

Deadpool got it then, and he nodded sagely. "Okay, so you can't eat it _now_. That's okay, then. Just _don't _waste it," he said in a threatening voice. "That food is a _gift _– not just from me, but from the gods of Mexican food! They would give you bad kismet for _decades_ for trashing their generous gift!" Peter rolled his eyes and shook his head in agreement before going to make a running jump to the next building over.

Deadpool followed easily, and it made Peter wonder again what exactly the extents of the mercenary's powers were. He knew about the healing factor and probable immortality that went along with that, but he wondered if Deadpool actually had enhanced speed and strength and agility, or if perhaps he had already had those skills before he became Deadpool. It was a question that Peter would love to ask, if only he had his voice. There were _so many _things he would love to ask the man if he were able to. Probably the one he wondered the most was why the mercenary liked _him _so much. Why did he come and make a point and an effort to hang out with _him_? It's not like he really provided anything to their relationship. Deadpool could just as easily be talking to a dog for all the reaction Peter provided, but still the guy chose _him_. And Peter would really like to know why.

_Focus, Parker, _he scolded himself mentally, giving himself a shake before he jumped to the next roof over. He really shouldn't be thinking about this when he should be looking out for –

Ah, there it was. His spidey sense tingled slightly and he heard a man's fearful cry, a few streets over. Moving quickly and stealthily to the sound, he peered over the edge of the roof into the alley down below – _and why does crime always happen in the alleys? _– and saw a man with a wicked-looking knife pointed at a fearful looking businessman. The man with the knife had two other guys behind him, looking somehow simultaneously bored and menacing. The casual way they held their own weapons – a two-by-four with several nails in one end for one of them and a metal baseball bat for the other – showed that this type of stick-up was nothing new to them. It spoke of history, of doing this dozens of times before, of being absolutely willing to use their weapons, should the need arise.

"Just hand over the wallet and the jewelry, and you can be on your way," the guy with the knife was threatening.

Deadpool dropped beside Peter, slightly winded but for once not chattering his ear off. He peered over the edge right next to Peter, taking in the scene below him.

"Please don't hurt me, I'll give you what you want," the businessman begged, voice reedy and terrified.

"Ooh," Deadpool hissed excitedly to Peter. "Is this the part where we shoot the bad guys' kneecaps?!"

Peter made a cutting motion with one hand; a very firm _no_. He didn't explain further though, climbing over the edge of the roof and skittering down on sticky hands and feet to get farther down, going down a side that was out of view of the guys down below.

Dropping lightly to his feet, he began walking past the alleyway, intentionally snapping his fingers and bobbing his head to an imaginary tune. If he'd had his voice, he would've been humming.

He walked a bit into the alleyway, and he could see that his actions had the desired effect of distracting the guys with the weapons. He stopped suddenly, making it obviously theatrical that he'd noticed them, and gave them a jaunty salute. Months ago he would've let out a chipper, "Hiya!" but this time he had to just content himself with imagining it. Eh, the meaning was the same anyway.

"It's Spiderman!" the guy with the baseball bat hissed, sounding nervous but also determined. Peter sighed to himself. That meant these ones were going to fight him.

"Spiderman?" the businessman repeated dumbly, sounding shocked.

"And company!" Deadpool cheered suddenly behind Peter. Peter didn't jump, though he hadn't heard the man get off the roof, let alone come up behind him. He glanced over and noticed that Deadpool was limping, and – his leg wasn't supposed to be bent like that. Shit, had he jumped from the roof? "Hi, there. The name's Deadpool, by the way. I'll be acting as Spiderman's voice for tonight – kinda like a translator. And he says, SURRENDER, MOTHERFUCKERS!"

That seemed to have broken the spell that the bad guys had fallen into in their surprise, and seemingly as one, they ran forward with weapons raised.

The guy with the knife got to Spidey first, but before Peter could even dodge the swipe, Deadpool was there, shoving the guy back with a flat hand to his chest.

"Well, that's just _rude_!" Deadpool huffed as Peter dodged the guy with the board and then tripped the guy with the baseball bat. "I tried, Spidey! Didja hear me? I used words and everything!"

Peter wasn't paying attention as Deadpool continued to ramble, kicking the back of one guy's knee and then striking him in the head with just enough force to knock him out. His spidey sense blared and he was just in time to dodge the guy with the knife making a swipe at the back of his neck. Before he could go for a hit to knife guy, Deadpool was behind him, grabbing the guy in a choke hold around the neck with one arm and squeezing said arm tight enough to make the guy pass out, his other hand holding the wrist that gripped the knife.

Peter saw that Deadpool wasn't exerting lethal force and grabbed the last guy, shoving him into the wall of the building. The hit was hard enough to daze him, and Spidey grabbed a zip tie from his pocket to tie the guy's hands behind his back for when the police came. He quickly followed suit with the guy Deadpool had taken care of.

The businessman had long since run away, taking advantage of the distraction the fighting had caused, and Peter was glad. Since losing his voice, he found it difficult to help people out of shock and comfort them enough that they could call for help. It was easier when they just ran away. And with Deadpool there, the merc _might _have been able to calm the guy, but somehow he just didn't seem the soothing type. But maybe Peter was being too judgmental.

"Man, that was hard!" Deadpool exclaimed, not sounding upset in the slightest as Peter grabbed a phone from one of the guys' pockets to call the police to come find them. Peter gave Deadpool a look, raising an eyebrow skeptically at the man's comment.

Deadpool understood and waved his hand quickly and dismissively. "Not the actual subduing them, but the not shooting or stabbing! Bea was calling my name the entire time, and don't even get me started on Betty! Do you _always _do it like this?!"

Peter shrugged, not sure exactly what Deadpool meant. Did he always stop muggers? Always use zip ties? Always…something.

"I mean, do you always do it without guns and knives and weapons and maiming?" Deadpool clarified, sounding baffled. Peter nodded, raising his eyebrows as though to ask _what's wrong with you? What kind of question is that? _Though Deadpool probably wouldn't get that.

"Wow!" Deadpool enthused. "Respect, Spidey! That's _hard_! Up top for Team Red!" He raised his hands excitedly, and Peter humored him by slapping both of them before jumping to climb up the wall again. Then he paused, pointing back at Deadpool's leg, which didn't seem to be as bent unnaturally as it had been moments before but still didn't look right.

"I'll be fine, Spidey," Deadpool said cheerfully, turning his leg from side to side like he was modeling a shoe and not showing a hint of pain. Peter wondered if it truly didn't hurt or if Deadpool was just so used to it that he didn't react so strongly anymore. "Good as new in fifteen minutes. Twenty, tops!"

Peter sighed. He couldn't have Deadpool jumping off of roofs the rest of the night – breaking his legs repeatedly would be pretty stupid. And he was certain that Deadpool would continue to do it without a word of complaint, just to keep patrolling. He wasn't sure how he knew; it was just – intuition. And he still needed to figure out why Deadpool wanted to come with him tonight. He'd actually been – helpful, with those muggers. Yes, Peter could have done it on his own, but that wasn't the point. Deadpool had still helped. But the question was, _why_?

He was no closer to figuring out an answer to this question by the time morning commuters began to make their way into the New York City streets and they decided to call it a night. The sky was just beginning to lighten to a slight purple, though the sun was yet to become visible, and Deadpool had bid him a jaunty farewell, disappearing quickly in the streets, somehow blending in despite the ridiculous black and red costume. Peter thought it must be a mercenary thing. Or a Deadpool thing.

He made his way through the city on tired feet, after changing quickly behind a dumpster – and by changing he meant pulling on his hoodie and jeans and tattered sneakers on over his Spidey costume. Looking like any other homeless kid on the streets of New York, no one paid him any mind as he found his way to the park bench he'd mentally claimed as his own.

The bench was next to a park, but far enough away that people didn't really go up there. The bench was beside a small jogging path, but besides the fact that it was out of the way, the hill it was set on was also steep enough that not many people took the roundabout path that led to this particular spot, so it was generally a fairly quiet place to be. Not that New York was ever _quiet_, but it was as quiet as Peter supposed he could expect. It also had a nice covering of bushes that, when seated on the bench, hid him from view of the casual park goer. Someone would have to be actually passing him on the path to be able to see him, and it was just how Peter liked it.

Sighing heavily and with great fatigue, Peter dropped onto the bench, curling up on one side almost instinctively. It was how he'd always slept, and even with the shape of the bench being wildly different from the shape of an actual bed he still automatically moved into the position he was familiar with any time he settled down.

Right after closing his eyes however, they snapped back open and he grunted to himself in frustration. He'd forgotten the rest of his Mexican food on the roof of that building. He was much too tired to go back for it now though, he decided. He'd have to catch a quick nap. Then he'd go get his food. Yeah.

The sounds of New York waking up eventually served to lull Peter to sleep.

* * *

The sun was high in the sky when Peter's spidey sense tingled in the back of his neck, and his eyes flew open and he was sitting up on the bench before he had consciously registered to do so. Way too many times before – before finding this bench out of the way of regular foot traffic – he had been approached by either well-meaning people who only caused him more trouble when they inevitably called CPS, or by people who tried to drug him and do bad things to him, just because he was homeless and no one worried if they went missing or got hurt.

He recognized a moment later that the warning in his nerves was nothing more than a small hum – only alerting him to someone else's presence, rather than an active danger to him. He relaxed a bit, noticing a man standing on the running path, watching him a bit warily. He had to have been the one to have triggered Peter's spidey sense.

The man looked unassuming. He was wearing a long-sleeved running shirt and jogging pants. His dark hair was pulled into a bun high on his head, but sweat-slick pieces had fallen out to frame his face. He was probably no older than thirty or so.

"Hi," the man said after a slightly awkward pause of just staring at each other. His voice was a bit rough like he wasn't used to speaking. It kind of reminded Peter of the sound his throat sometimes made when he tried saying something. "You alright, kid?"

Peter blinked, and nodded, not knowing what the guy wanted. Why was he still standing there? He'd clearly stopped in the middle of his run to talk to Peter – why would he do that? What did he want?

"Are you lost?" the guy asked then, looking as confused as Peter felt. Which was basically like a chameleon in a bag of Skittles. He wondered a moment later how on earth his brain had come up with that comparison. Must be the starvation.

Slowly, Peter shook his head, eyes flicking up and down the guy's body, looking for some hint that he wasn't who he pretended to be. Why was this guy bothering with Peter?

"Oh," the guy said dumbly, and Peter set his feet on the ground, getting ready to book it. His spidey sense wasn't warning him of danger, but this was weird, and he didn't want to wait for it to _become _dangerous.

"Sorry," the man said quickly when he saw Peter's movement. He took a step back, even though he was already far enough away that Peter could easily escape without touching the guy. "You don't have to leave, if – I just…you look cold. And you're sleeping on a park bench. I just wanted to – to make sure you're okay."

Peter nodded again, more firmly this time, and gave the man a sharp thumbs up, still watching the guy warily.

The man shook himself, looking a bit pained. "Sorry," he muttered, turning to continue down the path he'd been running. His voice changed then, turning into something almost like a Brooklyn drawl but not quite. "Didn't mean t' freak y'out."

Against his will, Peter felt a twinge of sympathy for the guy and a little bit of guilt on his part. The guy was just trying to help out – he wasn't going to hurt him. And now Peter felt bad for putting that look on the man's face.

So, before the guy could jog off, and cursing himself mentally in his head, Peter waved his hand to get the guy's attention. When the guy looked back, he did his best to give him a reassuring smile and a softer, less deliberate thumbs up to show that he was really okay.

"Okay," the guy muttered, eyes flicking away from Peter and then back, not looking at his face. "Good."

Peter paused, and then pointed at the guy, and when he looked at him, he raised his eyebrow and put his thumb up again – _are **you **okay?_

"Y-yeah," the guy stumbled a bit, looking uncomfortable. "I'm…I've never gone running before. Like this. My therapist said I should find a hobby, and…" he cut himself off, shaking his head quickly as though to get himself to focus again. "New York is different from what I remember," he mumbled to himself, and Peter didn't think he would have heard it if he didn't have his Spidey powers that increased his sense of hearing.

"Sorry, kid," the man said, shaking his head again and glancing at Peter. "I'll leave ya alone, now. Glad you're alright."

And he jogged off, leaving Peter behind him, silent as usual.

* * *

**Please let me know what you guys thought!**


	2. Chapter 2

**So, I normally post to Ao3, and I forgot I was cross-posting this fic on here. So...here's three chapters for you to catch anyone up who's not following this on Ao3 XD Many apologies!**

* * *

Peter didn't see Deadpool for a while after the last time. He remembered the mercenary mentioning something about taking up a job that would put him out of town for a couple of weeks, so he wasn't bothered or worried about it. The longest he'd gone without seeing the other man was nineteen days, when the merc had gone to Bolivia to kill the guy with the goat.

Peter stuck to his routine, though. Or, as close to a routine as he could come up with, being homeless and on the streets. Every day was always just a bit different. He avoided a woman he thought might cause trouble with CPS when he saw her staring at him for too long while he sat on a bench at the edge of Central Park, and that was about the most excitement he got as Peter Parker. Spiderman dealt with the normal muggings and other small crime, but nothing was really out of the ordinary for Peter for almost two weeks.

But then, a little boy who must have been no more than six years old approached him while he sat outside a dilapidated apartment building in the middle of the city. The dark-skinned boy, cheeks rosy with cold, thrust a five dollar bill at him, brown eyes large with concern. Peter blinked dumbly at him, because he hadn't been sitting here begging and hadn't expected to be given any money, and then looked up to see a woman standing a little distance away and watching him with equal parts wariness and pity.

"Here, mister," the boy said in front of him, pushing the bill more insistently at his hands. Peter finally accepted it, not knowing what else to do, and the boy gave him a gap-toothed grin in response.

"Have a good day, mister!" the boy said cheerfully, and went to take his mom's hand and skip off.

Peter blinked after him for a minute, before he shook himself and looked down at the bill clutched in his hand.

It had been so long since he'd had any money. When he'd first run away, he'd managed to take any cash left in the house, which had amounted to a measly hundred dollars or so. It hadn't lasted long. He remembered the feeling of helplessness as the money had quickly dwindled when he had had to keep buying food to keep his strength up. What he'd had really hadn't stretched that far. Now though, five dollars seemed like an enormous amount, after several months of having nothing. He wasn't sure what to do with it, suddenly.

He tucked it in his pocket after a moment, determined to find good use for it later, after deciding where he should spend it.

Just minutes later, as he was wandering down the street – basically window shopping for food that caught his eye – he noticed the movement of the crowd of people around him. It was uneasy, people avoiding something up ahead.

His spidey sense wasn't tingling with danger, but nevertheless he went forward trepidatiously, wondering what had people backing away.

He found a man sitting on the street, holding his hands to his ears and rocking back and forth slightly, muttering and moaning to himself like he was in pain. Peter instantly recognized what was happening – he had panic attacks himself, and when he got sensory overload due to his spidey senses it frequently triggered an attack. Not ones as bad as when he felt like he was dying, where he couldn't breathe, but the panic was there as everything seemed to slam into him.

Most people walking by weren't giving him too much attention. All they saw was a slightly scruffy man who wasn't mentally all there, and they did nothing more than give him a wide berth as they hurried on their way, not wanting to be involved in the poor guy's life in the slightest.

Peter sighed to himself at their ignorance, and moved forward determinedly. He recognized the guy – he was pretty sure he was the one who had made sure he was alright just a couple of weeks beforehand. His hair was let loose now, framing his face, and he was wearing jeans and a brown leather jacket, but still Peter recognized the posture and build of the man. His spidey sense tingled a bit as he got closer, but more in a way that told him to be watchful and aware rather than that there was live danger in front of him.

Laying a hand tentatively on the man's back, he felt the muscles tense further as the man shook his head.

"No…no…" the man muttered, seeming incapable of saying anything else.

"Shh," Peter was able to make the sound, squatting down and using the flat of his hand to continue rubbing soothing circles on the man's back. He saw that his fists were clenched shut as tightly as his eyes were, face contorted in pain and very obviously somewhere else entirely. He wished he could speak – it was always hard to comfort someone without a voice to reassure them. This was as much as he could do, and he wasn't certain that the man would appreciate it, either. Who would want a nasty homeless kid touching them, let alone trying to comfort them? He had to try though, at least until the man shoved him away.

He breathed in deeply, loud enough that the man could hear it, before exhaling exaggeratedly as well. After a few repetitions, the man caught on and began matching Peter breath for breath. After several moments of this, his fists loosened and his expression relaxed some, looking more like a memory of pain rather than the agony of moments before.

"Sorry," the man said, voice rough. "Thank you."

Peter patted his back in a sign of _'it's okay'_, before he continued to move his hand in comforting circles. The man relaxed more at this reassurance, and Peter was glad he'd been able to help and the guy hadn't shoved him away as soon as he realized what was going on.

Finally, the man stood up, and Peter followed, dropping his hand from the guy's back. Before the guy could say anything though, Peter motioned for him to follow. Silently, the man obeyed, and they made a quiet walk to a coffee shop just down the road that Peter had seen earlier while window shopping. Peter had always found that sugar helped after he had a panic attack and/or sensory overload, when he felt so drained he just wanted to take a nap.

It was quiet inside the shop, only the barista and one other couple in the back. The music was soft, something classical, and had the general feeling of _home _inside from the mismatched tables and couches to the plethora of drawn artwork on mismatched frames on the walls and the dim enough lighting that he wasn't blinded upon entering.

Peter deposited the other man into a booth on the far end of the shop, waving away the man's bewildered look as he went to the counter to order.

Gazing up at the menu, he saw that the smallest hot chocolate was three dollars. Glancing at the cups next to the register to show how big each one was, he decided that that wasn't enough for the other man. The large one was $4.50…

Pulling the five dollar bill from his pocket, he stepped forward to show the barista he was ready to order. Her tag said her name was Jada. He wondered briefly if her afro acted like a hat and made her warmer in winter months. Then he wished _he _was cool enough to pull off an afro.

"What can I get for ya, hon?" Jada said with a smile.

Smiling, he pointed to the large cup on display, then held up four fingers and pointed at the chalkboard menu above her head.

"Large hot chocolate?" the girl confirmed after looking behind her to see the fourth item on the menu. Peter nodded affirmatively.

"You want whipped cream on that?" she asked him, tapping a couple of things on her screen. "No extra charge."

Peter nodded, hoping that the man wasn't lactose intolerant or that the whipped cream wasn't actual dairy. He supposed it was only a little bit, anyway.

"Will that be all, hon?" Jada asked with a smile, looking back up at him. Peter nodded again and pulled the five dollar bill from his pocket.

"That'll be $4.91," she said, accepting the bill from him. "Your friend okay?"

Peter glanced back at the man, and saw him sitting in the booth, looking blankly in front of him. Looking back at the girl, he shrugged a little and gave a hesitant smile.

"Listen, I've got anxiety – I get panic attacks, too," she said as she counted out his change. "I know how draining it can be. For me, at least, it's pretty obvious he's just had one. So make sure he gets a nap, yeah?"

Peter nodded again with a smile, though he wasn't sure how he'd manage making sure the guy slept if he tried, and accepted the nine cents change and receipt. He dropped the change in the tip jar – wasn't anything he could do with nine cents, anyway – and went to go and sit across from the man.

The man didn't jump when Peter sat down, though it was clear he was a bit startled by Peter's sudden appearance.

"Thank you, kid," the man said, voice as rough as before. "For helping me out back there."

Peter shrugged, not really sure how to respond to that even if he _could _speak. Sometimes he could be grateful for the disability.

"I met you before, didn't I?" the man asked after a few moments of quiet that wasn't quite awkward. His grey eyes pierced through Peter's, waiting for an answer and looking half certain of his remark, just waiting for Peter to confirm it. Peter sort of shrugged and sort of nodded in response. He supposed it could count as meeting, when they'd talked – or, the other man had talked and Peter had gestured – before. The man looked relieved, and Peter wondered if he normally got confused about facts. It was the only explanation he could think of for why he would be so clearly relieved that Peter had confirmed his thought.

"I'm James," the man introduced himself after a brief pause. Peter opened his mouth, and then closed it again. He made a faint gesture toward his throat and shook his head regretfully.

"That's alright, kid," the man said, looking so understanding – but not with pity – that Peter almost wanted to cry. "Sometimes I don't want to talk, either."

* * *

Jada watched the two guys out the corner of her eye as she prepared the kid's hot chocolate. The older man looked sort of familiar, but it was pretty clear the kid was homeless. But the way that the kid had helped the older man inside and then sat with him to keep him company…it really gave her hope for humanity. Because it was clear that the two didn't know each other. And still, that selfless kid had given what was almost doubtlessly his last five dollars on a drink that wasn't even for himself.

The two of them didn't talk much – the kid didn't talk at all, clearly a mute – but it didn't look awkward or uncomfortable. There was simply an understanding between the two that went beyond words.

Jada understood that. The kid probably had panic attacks of his own – how else would he know to get the most sugary hot chocolate for the other guy? He knew just how to help a perfect stranger, because there was at least that one connecting factor.

She remembered the first time she'd had a panic attack. She'd been fourteen, a freshman in high school, and trying to get over the recent death of her mom due to a drive-by shooting, while also trying to get used to high school in a new city. She'd started to feel her throat closing and her vision going hazy while she'd been in the hallway on the way to class, and found herself unable to move.

That was how another girl – a pretty redheaded sophomore named Olivia – had found her. She'd guided her to a bathroom and helped her remember how to breathe again, and afterwards explained to Jada exactly what had happened. Olivia had panic attacks too, she said, and the best cure for them afterwards was loads of chocolate and fuzzy blankets. So they'd ditched the rest of the school day, going to Olivia's townhome for some fudge and snuggling to watch shitty romcoms till her dad got home. A decade later, Olivia was still her best friend.

Jada didn't have any fuzzy blankets here at work, but she did have a plethora of sweets at her disposal. And really, the kid deserved it for his selflessness – not just going to help the older man, but for giving up the last of his money for someone else he didn't even know.

So, after finishing one hot chocolate, she made another one, and then grabbed a plate, putting on it two brownies, a slice of black forest cake, a couple of double chocolate cookies, and a slice of chocolate silk pie. You could never have too much chocolate, in her book.

Taking it over to the table, she set down the tray and placed the food in front of them. She cheerfully ignored the kid's stunned look and the follow-up waving to say he didn't order all of this.

"Yinz let me know if you need anything else," she said with a friendly smile, before turning and making her way back behind the counter. A moment later, they began eating the food, and she smiled.

* * *

Peter rubbed his hands together to warm them up as chill descended on New York. It was warmer in the day now than it had been a month previous, but the nights still frequently went below freezing in March. The sun had finally disappeared over the horizon just a few minutes previous, and the temperature must have dropped at least ten degrees with its setting.

He sat on the beam of a crane, straddling it between his legs and kicking his feet a bit to keep his blood moving. He kept his ears attuned to any crime happening, his Spidey sense buzzing lowly in the base of his skull, warning him of the danger of his precarious position, should he tip over just slightly. Hundreds of feet in the air like this, he saw people down below on the street and the sidewalks like they were little dots, just hurrying about their business. New York was of course the city that never sleeps, so there was just as much traffic now as there was in the day; everything down below was cast in a red and yellow glow from the cars' lights. He was far enough from Times Square that he didn't have to deal with the harsh lighting of the billboards cast on every corner, but it was bright enough that he could see through his shaded lenses but still hide enough in the shadows so that he wasn't visible to people down below unless they were really looking for him.

He heard police sirens blaring in the distance, steadily growing louder, and Peter swung underneath the beam so that he was grasping the underside with hands and feet. Blood humming with excitement, he crawled along the beam back to the end of the crane, skittering quickly down the side.

Mentally calculating the distance to the ground, he jumped as soon as he was close enough not to cause injury to himself, landing on a taxi. He leaped and jumped across the tops of the other cars, some of the occupants loudly cursing him from inside their vehicles while others cheered in excitement. He waved to a few of them, but otherwise didn't pay them any mind as he followed the sound of the police sirens and searching for the cause of it.

He finally found his mark several minutes into his chase, passing the police cars still behind him to land on the side of the building. Holding on with three limbs, he paused to observe what seemed to be a giant naked mole rat chomping on the side of a billboard. Broken and bent cars were strewn around its feet, teeth marks in all of them.

Peter wrinkled his nose – naked mole rats always creeped him out. Rufus from Kim Possible was the only one he could handle, and that's because it was a cartoon. But real ones he just…_yuck_. And now this one was _giant_, and eating anything it could get its paws on. Or was it hands? What did naked mole rats even have?

Whatever, Peter thought to himself. He could ponder the anatomy of naked mole rats later. Right now he would just focus on taking it down.

Suddenly a shot rang out, and Peter almost fell off the side of the building, not having expected it. He looked down to discover that the police officers that had arrived before him had successfully set up a barricade. While some were herding people away, others had decided to shoot at the giant animal now that there were no possible civilian casualties.

But the mole rat was clearly immune to the bullets raining at it – the bullets practically bounced off.

But that didn't mean the animal was okay with the attack. Spinning to face the offending police officers, it let out a horrifying screech of anger, fangs dripping with saliva. Spit flew in front of the animal, lending to the rabid appearance. It took a step toward the officers, large foot causing vibrations to boom through the street.

_Well, enough sightseeing, Parker, _he thought to himself, leaping off of the building and spreading his limbs to land on all fours on the mole rat's back.

_Okay, what's the plan here, _he thought to himself as the rat shrieked again and reared back to try and throw him off. He clutched the wrinkly skin – _ew _– in an attempt to stay on through the thrashing.

"Spidey, you're going to get yourself killed!" One of the officers shouted below him. The shooting had stopped from the officers when the bullets did nothing to stop the animal, and as such the officers weren't really sure what to do. Peter's enhanced hearing caught a few of them on the radios, trying to bring in enforcements that had more firepower than they did.

Peter ignored all this, however, in favor of leaping up when the mole rat bucked back again, landing on top of the rat's face when it settled back down. It began swiping at its face, trying to scratch him off, and he skittered quickly away from the offending limbs, just narrowly missing a razor sharp claw to his side by grabbing a whisker and hanging on before using it to swing back onto its skin.

It was still screeching, and its breath stank to high heaven, but Peter crept closer to its mouth anyway, rearing back with his fist to land a brutal punch to the thing's tooth that was as tall as he was. He'd used all of his considerable strength, and it showed when the tooth cracked right below his fist.

The animal was not happy with this development however, and this time it was successful in throwing Peter off of it when it swung its head violently to the side. Peter lost his grip on the thing and went flying, crashing painfully into the side of a building. Luckily however – or not, depending on how you looked at it – there was glass right behind him, and he went crashing through that rather than breaking a bone against the brick wall of the building. It wasn't fun, but he had to thank whatever God was up there for small mercies like this.

Groaning to himself, he sprung to his feet, checking that no glass was stuck inside him – there wasn't, but he could never be certain in high-adrenaline situations, and he certainly didn't want his skin healing over the glass with it still stuck inside him – and ran toward the open window again.

_Holy shit, when did **that **happen?! _Peter thought almost hysterically when he saw that a large crater was now in front of the mole rat. But it wasn't because the street had broken – it appeared to have melted the very street itself. The officers were backing away as it got closer to them, uselessly pointing their guns at the animal but clearly unsure of what else to do in the face of this danger.

Then the mole rat spit out another wad of saliva to the middle of the group of officers, and they parted immediately. The saliva landed with a _splat_ on the vacated section of the street, and Peter saw how it immediately began to eat into the asphalt.

_Acid spit?! _Peter thought desperately, backing up several steps to take a running leap out the window.

He landed lower on the mole rat's back this time, closer to the middle of its body. It twisted immediately, locking beady eyes on him, and Peter felt his spidey sense blare an alarm in his head just before it let out another wad of spit flying his direction. He leaped to the side and dodged it right in time. He began climbing again, leaping to grab wrinkly skin far above him. He let his fist fly again, aiming at the side of the thing's head, but it didn't seem to have any effect this time. He crawled further, and grabbed one of the ears, yanking it to the side in the hopes that he might be able to steer it away.

It turned its head with the yank, letting out a furious shriek of pain and anger. Then, seemingly realizing that Peter was keeping him from the officers down below, it retaliated by not trying to reach Peter but by spitting at the officers again. Peter heard a yell of pain from one of the boys in blue, and his heart gave a pang of guilt. He immediately shoved it aside for later, though; he couldn't afford to be distracted now.

He skittered up further on the thing's head, before letting a punch fly right between the eyes. Surely the thing _must _have a weak spot…

The punch did nothing though, and Peter concluded that the skin was basically impenetrable – bullets and punches were doing nothing to it.

The mole rat spit again, and another officer shouted in pain when he was hit. Peter hoped the officers were alright and the wounds were mostly superficial.

Unfortunately, Peter was distracted enough by this that he was too late to avoid the claw that came swiping toward him. His spidey sense flared above the hum it had been at for the entirety of the fight, and he ducked to the side instinctively.

However, the rat moved to the left at the same time as he rolled to the right, and Peter was startled enough by falling off the head of the animal that a claw swiped right through his side, tearing a long bloody scratch from hip to sternum. A cry was torn from his throat at the burning pain, and without thinking about it, instincts kicked in and he pointed his wrist at the nearest building.

A web shot out of his wrist, making him cry out again at the fiery pain that immediately swept through his entire forearm. The web connected to the building though, and he grabbed the web with both hands, swinging into the building and immediately clutching to the bricks with his hands and feet. His spidey sense flared again before he could get his bearings, and he dodged the acid spit just in time; it landed with a sickening splat on the brick, and as close as he was, Peter could now hear the hissing as it ate away into the building.

He heard a high, mechanical whine then, and turned back just in time to see Iron Man fire a repulsor blast into the mole rat's face. The thing shrieked, but the blast didn't seem to have done any visible damage. Iron Man blasted it again anyway, and then an arrow went flying from behind the billionaire. Like the bullets and like the blast, it simply bounced off of the mole rat's skin, doing no damage but doing a great job at irritating the beast. Now completely ignoring Spidey, it shot a glob of spit at Iron Man, and the billionaire dodged right on time. This time Peter didn't hear a scream from the officers, so he hoped they'd done the smart thing and gotten out of spitting distance of the building-sized mole rat.

Well, _there _was something he wouldn't have ever expected to have thought two years ago.

His eyes caught on Captain America as the man appeared, slinging his shield at the rat's feet. Peter thought it wasn't going to do anything, just like the other hits, but amazingly, it sliced through the skin and viscous scarlet blood appeared. It wasn't much worse than a paper cut, but still Peter made a note to himself not to underestimate a vibranium shield – especially one chucked by Captain America.

The shield came flying back at the Captain, completely disregarding the laws of physics, and Peter heard him shouting that the shield had caused injury, though not much, before he aimed the shield again, this time to one of the arms. Simultaneously, something small and round was thrown from the Black Widow, and Peter saw electricity spiking around it as it attached to the animal and was completely ignored.

Peter wished, in that moment more than any others so far, that he had his voice so that he could tell them that he'd already tried weak spots on the skin. But, as he didn't, he simply sighed and sprang off of the side of the building, landing yet again on top of the mole rat. It looked like he would have to risk life and limb yet again just to show the real superheroes where they should be aiming their attacks.

Oh, well, he thought, skittering on all fours to the thing's snout. He was actually fighting _with the Avengers_, and that was pretty cool. He could nurse his wounds later when his help wasn't needed anymore.

He reared back and punched the mole rat's tooth again – the same one he'd punched before. The crack in the tooth grew bigger, and the animal screeched in fury and pain, violently shaking its head. Peter remembered suddenly, as a kid, riding on one of those bucking bulls in a restaurant his dad had taken him to. He'd lasted about a half a second then, but he was faring quite a bit better now. A+ for Peter.

Though, that might have something to do with his sticky hands and feet. Eh, he wasn't complaining.

"Spidey, _move_!" Iron Man's mechanical voice ordered.

_To **where**?! _Peter thought sarcastically. Wasn't anywhere he could go right now, so…he relaxed his grip on the mole rat's snout, dropping to land precariously on the animal's arm. Straddling it like a koala hugging a tree, he hung on as the beast went crazy.

An arrow flew past Spidey to land in the thing's eye, while simultaneously Iron Man blasted his repulsors into the beast's open mouth.

The mole rat let out one last scream, sounding choked and hoarse, before Peter felt the vibration of a small explosion inside of the mole rat and the animal began to fall.

Feeling resigned and a bit put out, Peter made to jump to another building before the beast could crash to the ground and take him with it. But before he could, hands grabbed him under the arms and he was yanked away from the dead mole rat. Peter didn't feel his spidey sense warning him of danger, so he didn't fight the grip of the unidentified man.

The flight was short as the man carried him to the top of another building that had very minimal damage to it. Peter immediately understood the reason for this building in particular when he saw Hawkeye perched at the edge of the building, looking mightily pleased with himself.

"Explosion arrow," was the first thing Hawkeye said to him when he was placed on the roof. Peter looked behind him to see the man that had carried him away; it was a dark-skinned guy with goggles and mechanical wings that Peter didn't recognize at all. A new Avenger? Wow, Peter was really out of the loop to have not realized that they had increased their membership.

He looked back at Hawkeye when the man continued his explanation. "It wasn't a big one, so you were safe the whole time. It was just big enough to blow the ugly thing's brain to pieces. Thanks for keeping it distracted till we got here, though!"

Somehow, even though to some the archer's words could be construed as condescending or patronizing, Peter didn't feel that vibe coming from him. Instead, he felt like he was honestly being thanked, and he wasn't really sure what to do with that. Because, well – this guy was an _Avenger_! And he was thanking poor old Peter Parker for a job well done? Well, not Peter Parker, but Spiderman. Still, though. It was a bit of a heady feeling to be receiving this praise from the guy.

"Hawkeye, by the way," the archer introduced himself. "And the goof who grabbed you is Falcon. He's new."

"_Goof_?" the black man demanded in exaggerated offense. "Look in the mirror sometime, Birdbrain."

"_I _am the _original _bird-themed guy on this team," Hawkeye pointed at Falcon threateningly with his bow. "You will treat me with _respect_."

Falcon snorted, but before he could let out a retort he was interrupted by the arrival of Iron Man appearing over the side of the roof, carrying Captain America. And Peter decided that now he had seen it all – it wasn't every day he saw Captain America getting a piggyback ride from Iron Man.

"You guys having a party without us?" Iron Man's mechanical voice echoed a bit around them as he landed on the roof and the Captain got off his back. "_Rude_."

Peter was just beginning to feel very trapped and very exposed (_like a fly caught in a spider's web_) with the Avengers caging him in. His eyes darted about, looking for a weak point in which he could make a break for it. Everything _seemed _very casual with how the rest of them were gathering, but he was pretty sure it was anything but. He was positive that it wasn't normal to gather on a rooftop after a fight – only two of them could fly; three if you counted Thor, but he wasn't there today. And Falcon was new, so…it really couldn't have been a tradition already. No, they were gathering here for a purpose, and Peter didn't want to stick around long enough to discover what that purpose was.

"Hey, Spidey," Iron Man called out to him. "I wanna talk."

Oh, _no_. Peter groaned mentally to himself, feeling a bit panicked. The billionaire wanted to _talk_. Did he not know that Peter _couldn't _talk? That he hadn't been able to for _months _now? He couldn't handle the expectations that came when people spoke to him. And right now, he was certainly not feeling his best. He was feeling woozy with the stinging pain from the wound in his torso, and his right forearm was sensitive and tingly.

"Hey, don't look so spooked, man," Falcon said, raising a hand a bit, almost placatingly, like he was talking to a nervous animal. "We're not gonna hurt you."

"We just wanted to make sure you were alright," Stark said, face plate popping up to reveal his face. "You got sliced by Rufus – we don't know if he had poison on his claws or anything, like how he spit acid."

"Are we really naming the giant beast 'Rufus'?" a woman's voice drawled behind him, and Peter spun, not having heard her appear, but felt better about himself when he realized it was the Black Widow. At least he'd been snuck up on by another spider, and she was about sixteen times better at the superhero gig than he was.

"I _know _you know what Kim Possible is," Stark snarked at her. He looked back at Peter. "But seriously, man – you should get that checked out. We have doctors at the Tower."

Peter shook his head violently, then stopped when the movement made him feel even more woozy. But he couldn't do doctors. His blood wasn't safe. He couldn't let others have access to it – he'd learned that one the hard way, with –

Nope. Not thinking about that.

"We can't just let you go like that, man," Hawkeye said, taking a step closer. "It would really suck to find out you'd died while we…"

But Peter was no longer paying any attention. Senses attuned on high alert, he registered where everyone was in relation to him, and who was the furthest away. Widow and the Captain were too much of an unknown as far as their speed went, but he was pretty sure that at least in the state he was in, they would catch him if he went in their direction. Falcon was completely unknown, and Hawkeye was fast with the bow and arrow, so he had no reason to assume that he would be slower in trying to catch him. Iron Man, though. He would be weighed down by the armor, and wouldn't be able to move at his normal speed. At least, that's what Peter hoped.

As soon as he'd mentally calculated all of this, he made a dash for the edge of the building. He just barely avoided Iron Man's metal fingers reaching out to grab him, and the others were either too far away or too surprised to react quick enough to catch him. Resignedly, he leaped over the edge of the building.

Shooting his hand out in front of him, he shot a web out, grunting at the expected burn that swept through his arm. The web attached to the next building over, and he grabbed the one after that with a web out his other arm. He knew that he couldn't keep this up safely for long though, so after a few minutes of swinging through the skyscrapers he stopped by grabbing onto the side of a building with hands and feet. He crawled into the darkened alleyway and sat there for several minutes, listening for sounds or other signs of pursuit.

But, it seemed he'd gotten away, and he breathed a sigh of relief before going to crawl down closer to the ground. The wound in his side was burning, but he could tell that there wasn't any further or continuing damage like the Avengers had suspected. It would heal soon enough. He decided he was done for the night, though. After all that, he really needed to get some sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

"So, he really has gone silent," was the first thing said about Spiderman when they got back to the Tower.

Tony glanced at Clint, who had spoken. "Yeah," he said, stepping off the elevator onto the common floor. "Old news, Birdbrain. Got anything else to add?"

"I wonder if he knows sign language," Clint pondered, flopping down on the couch. Natasha followed, curling up in the corner of the couch next to him.

"I'd like to know why he ran," Steve said, seating himself in one of the armchairs and setting his shield to sit next to him at his feet. "I think that answer would help us solve a multitude of other questions about him."

"Could be a variety of reasons," Tony supposed, sitting on the couch and acting like this really wasn't a big deal to him, though Natasha could see that he was at least a bit troubled by the enigma that was Spiderman. "Maybe he hates the Avengers. Or loves the Avengers. Or _because _of his sudden muteness. If I had to guess though, I'd say his powers are probably in his blood. Demanding he goes to medical could see blood tests, and he doesn't want that. Something you'd understand, Capsicle." He nodded at the nonagenarian, and the man hummed in thoughtful agreement.

"Why'd he go mute, though?" Clint wondered.

"That's the question that news outlets have been asking for months," Tony said. "Jarvis?"

Without a word, Jarvis obeyed the unspoken request, and holographic screens lit up in front of them, showing a multitude of articles over the past several months about the spider-themed superhero. They pondered everything from his muteness to the severe decline in the use of his webs. No one seemed to have any idea what the cause of it all was, but it made for a lot of publicity.

"That can't be the _only _thing that's changed, though," Natasha pointed out. "The mutism and lack of webs are just the most obvious things. What else has changed?"

Tony shrugged. "Don't know for sure. I've never followed him all that much. I know he became active as Spiderman about two years ago. It was probably about seven or eight months ago when people started noticing the changes to him. He used to sass off at the mouth, make criminals angry to make them easier to catch. Now he's just…silent."

"Well, let's think about why he might be using his webs less," Steve proposed. "Ideas?"

"He's probably low on cash," Sam pondered from beside Natasha. "Can't make as much of them as he did before, so he only uses them when he has to?"

"So maybe he got fired," Steve agreed with a nod. "And maybe it was related to one of our missions, and that's why he doesn't like or trust us?" He frowned to himself, because that didn't feel quite right, but he didn't have any better ideas, either.

"We're assuming that his webs are non-organic," Tony pointed out.

Sam raised an eyebrow skeptically. "You think those webs are coming out of his _body_?" He wrinkled his nose a bit. "Gross."

"I'm not saying anything for sure at all," Tony denied with a shake of his head. "The point is, we don't _know_, so we can't rule anything out."

"Still, I'd rather not think about that gunk actually coming out of him," Clint agreed with Sam. "That's nasty."

"I think it's swell," Steve disagreed thoughtfully. "Actually makes him more spider-like. And it makes more sense why he would theme himself after spiders, if it's his body that the powers come from rather than the suit."

"Okay, but we don't _know_," Tony pressed. "So no speculating on _ifs_. Just gotta be open to the idea of it, is all."

"So, no one else knows _anything _else about why Spiderman is acting differently?" Natasha redirected the conversation back to its original point. They all looked at each other, shrugging and shaking their heads.

"I'll look over old footage of the guy," Tony proposed, "And get back to you guys with anything I notice."

"Excuse me, but _why_, exactly, are we investing so much into this guy?" Sam inquired. "He's a superhero with as much right to privacy as anyone else does."

"We're curious," Tony said plainly.

"And bored," Clint added.

"And I have the means to help if anything _is _actually wrong," Tony said with a shrug.

"And we're bored," Clint reminded them again.

"I'll see what I can track down with my contacts," Natasha said, rising to her feet. "But in the meantime, it's two AM and I've been awake for far too long. I'll look into Spiderman in the morning."

* * *

Peter stared down tiredly at his wrists. They looked like they had been scrubbed raw with a steel sponge, dark red just around his spinnerets and fading to pink up his arm, looking like a bad rash that ended near his elbows. They stung and ached under the skin, and the cool air wasn't helping any.

Tugging his shirt sleeves back over his wrists, he wrapped his arms around his knees, clutching them to his chest to conserve warmth.

It had been a long day. He'd slept till the sun was high in the sky, in one of the empty warehouses near the docks that had been boarded up so much that the only way he could get in was through the roof. It really helped, to have Spidey powers when homeless – it afforded him many more options of where to sleep, relatively protected from the cold outside.

While he'd slept for a while though, he was still exhausted when he woke up, and he discovered why when he saw his wrists and the cut in his side that hadn't healed much. Normally, or before he'd been homeless at least, that wound would have been nothing more than raised pink skin by the time he woke up. Now, it had stopped bleeding, but any sudden movement ran the risk of tearing it open again. That's what happened when he didn't eat enough food to sustain his powers.

He'd remained in the warehouse the entire day, laying there with nothing else to do and praying that the wound would heal enough that he could go out as Spiderman that night. He'd used the rest of his black embroidery floss to stitch the cut in his suit back together, and he hoped that it would hold up at least long enough for him to get a few quarters thrown his way so he could go buy some more for next time. Because in his line of work, there would certainly be a next time.

He'd indeed ended up going out, though in hindsight it might have been better to hold off for another night. A twist and a kick to some random mugger had been just enough to cause the wound in his side to start seeping blood again, and he'd had to call off for the rest of the night. Luckily, nothing major happened like the night before.

Now, he sat on his favorite park bench again, watching as the sun began to rise and the noise level of New York City somehow – impossibly – increased. Peter didn't mind the noise, though – not unless he was on the verge of sensory overload. Somehow the hustle and bustle of New York had always been comforting to him. The noise, the people, even the lights shining through the streets and in the skyscrapers at night.

It was probably only about ten minutes after the sun had peeked over the horizon that Peter detected someone coming up the running path near the bench. He straightened a bit, not looking in the direction the sound came from but completely aware as the person drew nearer. Hopefully it was just a dedicated runner about to jog on by without a glance at him.

The runner slowed though as he got closer, and Peter looked up when he deemed that a normal person would have noticed the other's appearance and subsequent halt.

He was surprised to see that it was the man from before – James, he remembered. This time he was in grey jogging pants rather than black, but otherwise he looked to be wearing the same shirt as before and his hair was in a bun again. He was also looking right at him.

"Hi," James said, a bit nervously. Peter waved his hand slightly in greeting, confused why the guy was there again.

"I, uh…" James started, "I brought food. To say thank you. For last time." His speech was a bit stilted, but Peter wouldn't have minded even if the man _hadn't _brought him food. He smiled a bit to make him feel more comfortable, and it seemed to work, because James looked a bit relieved as he took the smile as permission to close the distance between them.

"I didn't know what you would like," the older man said, sitting down hesitantly beside Peter, relaxing when Peter didn't show any sign of protest at the action. "So I got a few things." He practically thrust the bag at Peter, and Peter accepted it, mouth watering when his nose caught a whiff of the heavenly smell exuding from it. He opened the large bag to see a couple of what appeared to be burritos, a couple of breakfast sandwiches, and a Styrofoam container at the bottom that he could tell were pancakes. There were also several hash browns, several packets of ketchup, and a couple of tubs of syrup.

Peter looked back up at James with a grateful smile, reaching in to grab a burrito. He held the bag back out for James, and James took it with a little look of surprise on his face, like he hadn't expected Peter to give him any. Which was crazy, because James didn't have to bring him the food in the first place, so of course James should have some too. Besides, it would be weird if he was the only one eating.

James took a hash brown and a packet of ketchup, squeezing some out onto the fried snack before taking a bite.

It was quiet for several minutes while they ate, but it was a comfortable quiet. James clearly didn't expect Peter to speak, and Peter had learned at the coffee shop that James wasn't exactly chatty, so they just watched the sky as it slowly lightened, splitting the food between them.

Finally, as they were finishing the last of the hash browns, James spoke, startling Peter a bit out of the reverie he'd fallen into.

"What's your name?"

Immediately, the calm that had enshrouded them for the past while disappeared, and Peter's throat began to tighten in panic. Questions – he couldn't do questions, because questions demanded answers and it should be easy, shouldn't it, just say it, say _Peter_, but he couldn't because if he spoke then bad things would happen and he didn't want that anymore but how was he supposed to tell someone all this, that he couldn't possibly speak to answer their question, and no, he wasn't _trying _to be rude but he just – couldn't – _say it_ –

"Hey, kid, sorry," James' voice broke through Peter's panic. "You don't have to answer, alright? I know you can't talk, I just. People who know sign language usually have a sign for their name, and I thought maybe you did, too. Like someone whose name starts with a B might make the letter B in sign language and – I dunno, touch it to their ear, or somethin'. Some random movement, y' know? You don't have to speak – I'm not asking you to, okay?"

Peter gradually calmed down, feeling himself flush with embarrassment at his ridiculous overreaction. Especially when it was in front of someone else.

_Get it together, Parker, _he scolded himself mentally, giving James an apologetic look.

James waved it away though, like it was nothing, and didn't mention it further. "You wanna make a sign for your name?" he asked him, popping the last bit of hash brown into his mouth and wiping his slightly greasy fingers on his pants. Peter shrugged in agreement, not really caring. He wasn't really hungry anymore, but he finished the rest of his own hash brown anyway, knowing that it would help his injuries heal quicker. He knew that he could definitely stand to eat more – a sausage burrito, an egg McMuffin, two pancakes, and three hash browns was merely a snack for his metabolism. But it was better than nothing, and he was extremely grateful to James for getting it for him.

"How about something that defines you?" James suggested, crumpling up the trash from the food and shoving it in the paper bag that had been holding all of the food. "How would you describe yourself, using only your hands?"

Peter's first thought was anything to do with Spiderman, but anything he could think of gesturing had the chance of giving him away, so he nixed that idea before it could fully form. His next thought was of Aunt May, but that was…not viable.

Finally, he decided on one that was just vague enough to give nothing away but he still felt pretty much defined him. Clenching his hand in a fist, thumb on the outside, he tapped his cheekbone with the exposed thumb. James copied him, not asking about the sign or about its meaning, simply copying the movement.

"Swell," James said with a bit of a smile. "I know someone who's deaf, and he made my name with me." He brought both his hands forward, and interlocked the pinkies before releasing them, turning his hands the other way, and interlocking them again.

"I didn't have a name for a while," James admitted quietly, dropping his hands to his lap and not looking at Peter, gazing out at the blue sky before him. "It's nice to have one now."

Peter cocked his head, thinking that James must be talking about the sign name, but the seriousness with which he said it made that assumption seem a bit off. There was trauma there, somewhere, and he wasn't sure how to interpret it. And he certainly wasn't going to ask – he knew how nerve-wracking and panic-inducing questions were. If James wanted to share, he would.

But he didn't. After a few more moments of silence, James looked at him, carefully rearranging his features into something less haunted. He changed the subject to something meaningless; Peter later couldn't remember what it was.

They spent probably about another half hour sitting on that bench, sometimes quiet and sometimes James telling him some passing anecdote or another. And when he left, saying his brother was going to wonder where he'd gotten off to and be a mother-henning worrywart, Peter felt like he'd actually…maybe…gained a friend in James.

* * *

"Hey, Buck," Steve greeted him faux casually when he arrived at the Tower again after his morning run.

Bucky pretended not to notice the clear 'what the hell is going on because you're worrying me a lot' vibes that Steve was exuding from every line and pore of his body. Steve was never one to keep his thoughts inside for long – he'd come out with it eventually.

"Hi," he greeted shortly, going to the fridge and pulling out the juice – apple, because the orange one made him think of burning insides and that was no good.

"Good run?" Steve continued to pretend like everything was normal. Bucky knew that Steve struggled with not going running with him in the mornings – especially because they left around the same times. Bucky just took a different path from Steve, so he could be alone.

Well. Not _quite _alone. Not anymore – not some days. Some days he saw the kid, and it was nice to spend the time with someone – someone innocent, who didn't fear him, and who didn't even know who he was. Someone without an agenda, who clearly had several of his own traumas layered in his short history.

Bucky nodded in response to Steve's question, getting a glass from the cupboard and pouring some juice into it. "Was alright."

"Is it helping at all?" Steve pressed further. "I know it's only been a few weeks, but – does it help?"

Bucky nodded, knowing the answer to this. Replacing the cap on the juice and putting it back in the fridge, he said, "Yes. I think so. I like the sunrise."

"Good, Buck," Steve said, his smile like sunshine – genuine. "You look like you've been doing better recently."

Bucky turned to Steve and raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Still got a while to go."

"Well, yes, of course," Steve hurried to say, like he was afraid to offend. "Just…"

Bucky sighed, because Steve was taking _forever _to spit out whatever it was that he wanted to say. "I know, punk," he said. "You're worried. It's your perpetual state. I'm not gonna bolt because you think you've said something wrong."

Steve looked guilty at being caught out, but of course, he didn't address it directly because talking about your feelings was not The Steve Rogers Way. At least, not when they were his _own _feelings.

"I just feel like you're still…keeping secrets," Steve said. Misunderstanding Bucky's facial expression, he hurried on, "Not like, traitor-worthy, Buck, of course not. I know you're honestly trying to get better and you're not going to slip up into Winter Soldier mode, or something. I just – want to know what's going on. You're acting different – even from since I've known you getting back."

'Getting back'. Bucky snorted mentally to himself. Of course Steve would call discovering he was actually a person and not just a weapon, then going on a trip of self-discovery and working at tearing down Hydra so that he could feel somewhat safe 'getting back'. That was Steve Rogers for you.

But, Steve had used his words to ask what was going on, so Bucky decided to reward him with an honest answer.

"The first time I went running, I…met someone," Bucky said with affected casualness, shrugging his shoulders. The motion felt weird, because he was still getting used to the casual gestures that contributed to half of human communication. He'd discovered that it helped to put people more at ease, seeing these human movements in him, rather than the stillness and flat way he used to behave. But still, practicing these gestures was still a work in progress.

And, he hadn't been _trying _to keep the kid a secret. Somehow any mention of him just hadn't come up in conversation. Wasn't like there was a way you could just randomly say, "Oh, hey – I met this homeless kid and half the time I go running I look for him because he makes me feel safe and I really just want to protect him from the world." So he didn't feel _guilty_, exactly, for not telling Steve about him. But he'd first met the kid a little less than four weeks ago, and he hadn't brought him up since then, so he could admit that it _did _look a bit…odd. Maybe even suspicious. But he was telling Steve about him _now_, so whatever.

Steve's face had an odd expression on it. "You…_met _someone?" he asked, sounding a bit strangled and so, so lost.

Bucky nodded, wondering why Steve was so confused. Going out among people, of course he was going to _meet_ some of them. That was the whole point in actually going outside. "Yeah," he said. "He was sitting on a park bench the first time I met him. Then a couple weeks later, I had a panic attack when I was just on the sidewalk, and he came and helped me. We went and got hot chocolate and desserts. Now I see him sometimes at the bench."

Steve only looked more baffled at this explanation. "You met…a _man_?"

Bucky frowned in confusion, gripping his glass of juice tighter in his stress at Steve's reaction. He wasn't sure how to respond, because Steve looked almost distressed and he wasn't sure why. He remembered how everyone always told him to just be honest, and after taking a breath, he said, "I don't understand your confusion."

Steve shook his head to himself. "I mean, I don't have a _problem _with it," he said hurriedly, confusing Bucky even further. "Of course I don't. You can be with whoever you want, I just – didn't know you were homosexual."

Bucky was so shocked by this seeming out of the blue comment that his eyes widened without his permission. He quickly ran through the conversation in his head, looking for where the wires got crossed, and he shook his head rapidly, feeling revulsion claw at him and choke in his throat.

"_No_!" he said forcefully, eyes wide with panic. "I don't – no, fuck, he's a _kid_, for one thing. He's a homeless _teenager_. And I don't – I would never – not just with men, but with – with _anyone_, I couldn't – that's _too close_, and – it's _not fun_! I wouldn't…!"

"Okay, Buck, okay," Steve hastened to assure him and calm him, waving his hands at him and not sure where to put them as it was probably pretty clear Bucky was on the verge of a panic attack. It had become clear in recent weeks that touching was generally a no for Bucky, but especially when he was in the midst of a panic attack. "I'm sorry, I just – misunderstood."

"I – I would _never_…" Bucky fought to breathe evenly, to make the black spots in his eyes disappear. "Not after – I _can't_, it's too – too _much_…"

"Okay – okay!" Steve raised his voice a bit to be heard. "Can you see my nose, Buck? Look at my nose – big Irish nose, remember? Okay, good. Now, what's there two of here? I got the one, now you get the two. What is there two of?"

"Hands," Bucky managed, eyes darting about. He looked at his own hands, and was surprised in a detached sort of way that he was gripping broken glass between his hands, and his hands were wet with apple juice. He must have gripped the glass too hard.

_Always too hard…_

"Okay, Buck, good – two hands. What's there three of? Can you find three of the same thing in this room?"

Bucky's eyes darted about, searching, and –

"Lights," he said. "Three lights – in the ceiling."

The black spots were beginning to disappear as he focused on his task, and Steve coaxed him through finding four picture frames on the walls, between the kitchen and the adjoining living room, and then to five other glasses on the counter because Steve always grabbed a new glass when he got a drink rather than just reusing the one he already had earlier.

"I'm sorry, Bucky," Steve said, looking enormously guilt-ridden once Bucky had finally calmed down. Bucky shook his head, dismissing it, because it wasn't like Steve was _trying _to freak him out with those horrible memories, but Steve continued on, anyway. "No, I shouldn't have just assumed. So, this kid. He helped you out too, huh? That was real kind of him. What's his name?"

It was clear that Steve was trying to get Bucky talking, not only to find out more about the kid but also to distract him more and get him calm again.

Bucky made the sign that he and the kid had decided on, making a fist and knocking his thumb to his cheekbone. At Steve's slightly confused look, Bucky explained, "He's mute, but he doesn't know sign language. He decided on that one to be his name. I don't know his name other than that."

"But he still helped you out of a panic attack?" Steve said, but not like he doubted him, but like he was impressed and reminding both of them of this fact. "Sounds like an impressive kid. How old would you say he is?"

"Maybe fifteen or sixteen," Bucky said, sadness in his eyes at the thought of the homeless kid. He was really sweet, and Bucky wished there was some way he could help him. "He seems pretty capable, though. Looks like he's been homeless for a while now, which means he made it through a New York winter."

"Well, he must be resourceful, then," Steve said, lips quirking a bit, though his eyes still betrayed his worry and concern for Bucky. "Sounds like how we useta be…I still don't know how I didn't drop dead one of those winters without the heater running proper."

"You were angry enough to keep your blood pumping constantly," Bucky blurted, and then wondered where the snark had come from.

If Steve hadn't seen the confusion, he doubtlessly would have continued bantering, but he could see that Bucky was done after the one comment and didn't say anything about it.

"C'mon," he coaxed instead. "Let's get some breakfast. You can tell me more about this kid."

* * *

**I don't think I'll ever actually explain what Peter and Bucky's sign names are supposed to mean, but here's what I was thinking for both of them:**

**Peter's sign draws to mind a punch, and with it on his cheekbone, I figured it could illustrate how he's prone to fights (as Spiderman) but also to getting hurt himself.**

**With Bucky, his sign would mean "friend" if he did it with his index fingers. I made it with his pinky fingers because that's the finger you use to make a "J", and his first name is James. I think the use of pinkies rather than index fingers also draws to mind a pinky promise, which is basically like Steve and Bucky's catchphrase "'till the end of the line" being their own pinky promise.**


	4. Chapter 4

**It has never made sense to me how mean people can be. On one of my other fics, someone was mad at how I had written things out and implied I was stupid for writing it that way and they're not going to read anymore. Like...I don't fault you for that opinion. You do you. But why are you telling me this? What is this supposed to help or change? You are lashing out like a child, ma'am, and I'M the one getting hurt. I don't want to deal with that shit. I write to have fun, not to cater to everyone else's desires.**

**So if you don't like this fic - or any fic, by any author - just quietly leave. You don't need to say anything. Everyone would PREFER that you didn't say anything. We don't need that kind of negativity, especially considering how many of us have anxiety and your comment could send us away from writing, the very thing we use TO DEAL with said anxiety.**

**In short, don't be a dick. If you're already a dick, stop it.**

**Now, for all of you lovelies who are perfectly wonderful and respectful people, I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

Deadpool finally reappeared in Peter's life twenty-six days after he'd seen him last, just when Peter was beginning to wonder if he should be concerned about the mercenary and his absence. He hadn't realized how much he'd begun to worry until he saw the familiar katana-bearing figure in red and black appear on the roof he sat perched on the edge of and he found himself breathing a sigh of relief.

"Hiya, Spidey!" Deadpool greeted cheerfully, plopping down beside him and dropping two boxes of pizza between them. He opened one and took out a cheesy slice, and Peter followed suit, shoving his mask above his mouth to take a big bite. With his free hand, he gave Deadpool a wave of greeting.

"Anything exciting happen in my absence?" Deadpool went on, showing his usual horrendous disregard for any kind of manners as he talked through the food stuffed in his mouth. Peter waved his hand in a so-so motion in response. "Don't lie to me, Spidey – I heard about a giant Rufus terrorizing Manhattan!" Peter was amused that Deadpool had given the mole rat the same name that Iron Man had, but he was not in the least bit surprised.

Deadpool continued, "And you – _and _the Avengers – were right in the thick of it! Although I told Bathsheba that I bet you did most of the work. Bathsheba is a quite lovely black bear that I met in Ukraine. Funny story how I met her, actually – involves a mercenary rival, a dreidel, and a tube of cherry chapstick. When I forget the story later, just remind me of those things and I'll remember what story I was going to tell. I have a surprising amount of Russian black bear stories, believe it or not, and I might accidentally tell you about the gig in '09 if you don't remind me of those things I just mentioned.

"But anyway, I said to Bathsheba, when I heard about your little foray with Rufus, I said – that's my baby boy swinging through, saving the day! Or, night. Because it was dark. Of course I YouTubed it as soon as I was within wifi again. It's kinda crazy how many people just stand by to video the destruction rather than running away from the thing hell-bent on killing them, but fuck – who am I to talk? But I saw multiple angles, pieced together the whole fight. Way to go, Spidey! Glad that fucker is dead, may Ron Stoppable forgive my everlasting soul.

"And it was cool that you were carried off by the _Falcon_! New guy, but like – still an Avenger, and that's cool. Didn't see you after that. You're alright though, right? He didn't carry you off to try and figure out your identity, or test your blood for your spidey powers, did he? He didn't have all the rest of the Avengers gang up on you?"

Peter paused somewhere in the last part of Deadpool's rambling, suddenly receiving the epiphany that this rambling was not the usual mindlessness that the man treated everything else with. The entire purpose of this all was to come and figure out if Peter was still okay – if he was still _safe_. It made something warm rise in his chest, but he quickly shoved down the feeling. He couldn't afford to actually get close to Deadpool. Everyone who got near him died – he was cursed. And Deadpool may not be able to be killed, but he could certainly feel pain.

But, a voice in the back of Peter's mind whispered to him, it may already be too late to ward off friendship with the man. He was in too deep already.

He shoved that voice away though, and gave Deadpool a thumbs-up. He tilted his lips upward into a smile, because the mercenary would actually be able to see it this time, with his mask pulled up. Deadpool paused to scrutinize him for a moment – probably for signs of dishonesty, that he wasn't _really _okay – before he nodded and took a nonchalant bite from his pizza.

"Good," the man said decisively. "'Cause you know I'll skewer anyone who tried it, Spidey. I wouldn't even have to kill them – I can keep your non-lethal rules and everything. I'll just poke him a bit. A small maim. A minor dismemberment. You know."

Peter laughed a bit, more an exhalation of air through his nose than anything else, but he didn't stop his friend the guy from rambling on about whatever he wanted to as they continued to eat their way through the two boxes of pizza.

A bit later, Deadpool clapped his hands together to brush off the crumbs, and then swiped his hands on his thighs to rid them of excess grease.

"Think I can patrol with you again, Spidey-babe?!" Deadpool said, unable to hide his excitement at the prospect as he jumped to his feet and pulled his mask back down to cover his entire face once again. Peter found the random thought stray through his mind that he wondered what color the man's eyes were, before he shook himself and lifted a hand to give Deadpool another thumbs-up – probably his most used method of communication, when he thought about it.

In retrospect, Peter realized that to Deadpool, it looked like he was raising his hand in a request for help up. At the time though, he was startled at the unexpected grasp of the larger hand over his much skinnier wrist, and because he couldn't expect and prepare for the touch, it was impossible to hide the instinctive, full-body flinch of pain when the hand pressed against his inflamed spinneret through the suit.

It wasn't a jerk – it was hardly even noticeable. Just a flinch. But still, it was enough for Deadpool, the man who caught everything, and he instantly pulled his hand away, back to himself, releasing Peter in the process.

"Sorry, Spidey," Deadpool said, but his voice was just a bit off, sounding a bit cold and barely hiding the hurt underneath. "Didn't realize you didn't want me to even _touch _you."

Peter jerked at the words, at the thinly veiled accusation underneath. He jumped to his feet and waved his hands a bit, shaking his head frantically. He knew, based on some of the offhanded remarks that Deadpool made about himself, that he had a very low opinion of himself. Thinking that Peter – Spiderman – the very person he'd decided was his friend, would be disgusted at the touch of a mercenary like him…that would be painful to bear. And it was entirely untrue and he didn't want Deadpool closing himself off, because he was probably the person that Peter liked most in the world now, with everyone else gone, and if Deadpool left too…

So, it was without a thought for his identity or his pride when he stepped closer to Deadpool, where he was just beginning to turn to walk away, and he grabbed his arm in one hand, using just a bit of his super strength to keep him from escaping. While keeping the grip on Deadpool's arm in one hand, he yanked up the sleeve of his suit to that hand with the other, and then released his grip to practically shove his arm in Deadpool's face.

"Holy _shit_, Spidey," Deadpool breathed when he finally saw what Peter was so insistent on showing him. He stopped trying to turn away, turning his full attention to Peter's exposed forearm and wrist. He reached out, stopping just shy of actually touching Peter again. "That doesn't look like drug tracks. What the hell happened?" His hand touched underneath his arm, gently, like he was afraid to touch any of the red on the exposed side.

Peter shrugged a bit, not really sure how he was supposed to explain to Deadpool that his body was just trying too hard to keep him alive and running at 500% and he didn't have enough consistent fuel to make sure his webs and spinnerets were functioning correctly.

"Wait a second," Deadpool said, and Peter felt a bit worried at the realization in the man's voice as he brought Peter's arm closer so that he could see it better. "Is that – is that where your _webs _come out?!"

Peter wasn't sure what to make of the horrified fascination so clear in Deadpool's words and tone, but he nodded in confirmation anyway.

"Well, shit, I thought you _made _them – had wrist shooters, or something," Deadpool muttered distantly. He looked up at Peter, keeping his arm in his grasp while looking in his face with the white eyes of his mask. "What happened? Is this why you don't swing anymore? Do they just – not work anymore? Shit, are you losing your _powers_?"

Peter wasn't sure how else to reassure Deadpool that his powers were still intact except by using them, so, bracing himself for the pain, he pointed his free wrist at the other side of the roof. The web shot out as expected, and he grimaced only a bit at the pain, having expected it this time.

With a gesture at the other arm, he faked a few coughs, explaining as best as he knew how that he was sick. It wasn't exactly correct, but that's as much as he was willing to share with the mercenary, maybe-friend or no. If he was lucky, he'd be able to go the rest of his career as a minor without anyone knowing he was homeless. If he was even luckier, no one would ever find out that _Spiderman_ was homeless. Sharing that it was lack of constant nutrition would not only alarm Deadpool, but it would almost certainly make him feel guilted into bringing food every time he and Spiderman met up, and not because he _could _but because he _pitied _Peter. And Peter sure as hell couldn't let _that _happen.

"You're sick?" Deadpool questioned, but rather than the explanation reassuring the guy, as Peter had hoped and expected, he only sounded more alarmed. "It's not terminal, is it? Is it cancer? Because shit, I feel. But it's curable, right?"

Peter nodded quickly, not wanting Deadpool to think he was _dying_, and thought quickly. He coughed again, then pointed to his head, and then wobbled his hand back and forth in a so-so type of gesture.

"It's a _mental _sickness?" Deadpool clarified, relaxing only barely. Peter nodded. "What is it? Depression? Anxiety? Anorexia? Bulimia? Schizophrenia? DID? OCD? ADD? PTSD? That's all the letter ones I know; shit, what else is there." He scrambled as Peter kept shaking his head at what he threw out. "Uhh…plain old stress, maybe?" Peter nodded and waved his hand at this. Yes, he was pretty sure he had depression, anxiety, and PTSD, regardless of the fact that he hadn't been _officially _diagnosed, but if he admitted to any of those things he was 99% certain that Deadpool would actively try and do something about it, like try and convince him to see a counselor or go on meds or something, and that was definitely a no-go from Peter. Blaming the rash centering on his spinnerets on stress was just the easiest way to go, really.

"Aw, Spidey, why are you stressed?" Deadpool said, sounding anxious at the very thought himself, before he seemed to realize something and shook himself. "Shit, no. Boundaries. You're right, White – he doesn't need to answer that. You don't need to answer that, Spidey. I mean, _obviously _you're dealing with not easy things, what with the selective mutism and all. But just remember, Spidey, I'm not here to judge, alright?" His voice was uncharacteristically serious as he looked down at Peter. "So if you need help – with _anything _– you better come to me. I don't care if we have to play charades for eight hours for me to figure out what you need, but when I _do _figure out what it is I'll kill people to get it. If it's needed. I mean, I wouldn't kill someone in line in front of me in the grocery store if I had to pick something up for ya, because that's overkill – heh, no pun intended – but you know what I mean. Okay? Do you get me, Spidey?" Peter nodded, a bit caught off guard by the firm declaration said with atypical seriousness.

"Good," Deadpool said, posture lightening a bit as he straightened and finally released Peter's arm. Peter tugged the sleeve back down to cover the entirety of the skin again. "'Cause if you get hurt because you didn't ask for help, I will _beat_ your fine ass, and not in the fun way. Maybe. Guess we'll see."

Not knowing how else to react, Peter gave him another thumbs-up in acknowledgement and passive agreement.

"Alright, then," Deadpool declared, planting his fists on his hips and standing with legs spread apart in a ridiculous superhero pose. To complete the image, he pointed a finger in the air. "Let's go stop some baddies!"

* * *

Steve wanted to meet the kid that Bucky had sort of maybe adopted, because of course he did. And nothing Bucky said to try and dissuade him worked.

Bucky could have refused outright, and he knew that Steve would have backed off. But something kept him from doing so, and he was left to simply try and _convince _Steve not to try and meet the kid.

He didn't know if it was his time with Hydra or simply the decades spent apart, but he'd forgotten exactly how _stubborn _the guy could be. Not to mention earnest.

And so, just a few days after he had told Steve about the homeless teen, he found himself going out for his morning run with a blond companion at his side.

"I don't even know if he'll be here today," Bucky half-warned and half-complained yet again. "He's not _always _here."

"I know, Buck," Steve said cheerfully, not deterred in the slightest by Bucky's pessimism. In his hand was a bag of muffins that he'd taken from the basket Tony had sent to the communal floor that morning. He also had two bottles of apple juice and a bottle of orange juice. Bucky had still insisted on stopping by McDonald's on the way to grab something with more protein in it though, so he was holding that one as they jogged.

"Doesn't hurt to try, though," Steve continued. "And if he's not there, we can eat all of this just fine today and try and see him again tomorrow."

Bucky sighed, knowing he was defeated. Steve was way too earnest – and _invested _– to be swayed now.

And it wasn't exactly that Bucky _didn't _want Steve and Peter to meet. It was just…what if Peter got spooked and ran? Or what if Peter figured out who they were, and wanted nothing to do with a former assassin for Hydra? Or what if Peter had no idea, but after meeting Steve, he preferred the blond anyway? Bucky didn't want to lose his friend, not even a little bit. There were just too many variables here to properly plan for all of them.

And, like Steve was psychic, the teenager was indeed there at the bench when they approached.

The kid sat up quickly when he saw Bucky, tentatively beginning to smile, before he spotted Steve next to him and his smile vanished, his frame going tense. He looked about two seconds away from bolting, and eyed the both of them distrustfully. The look he gave Bucky was one laced with betrayal, and Bucky's heart clenched a bit with worry anew at how this meeting might go.

"Hey, kid," Bucky said in his gentle voice, hoping the kid didn't run off out of fear of meeting a new person. "This is my – brother, that I told you about."

Steve gave Bucky a curious look, and Bucky willed himself not to flush. He'd never called Steve his brother in his presence before – not in this century, at least. He didn't want Steve to make a big deal out of it.

Luckily though, at the moment Steve was more focused on the kid, and didn't make any comment about it. Bucky wasn't foolish enough to believe that Steve wouldn't bring it up again, but he enjoyed the reprieve while he could.

"Hi," Steve said in a friendly voice. "I'm Steve, by the way. My brother's told me a little bit about you, and I wanted to meet the guy who'd impressed him so much. I brought muffins and juice."

The kid's expression lightened at the mention of food, and when Steve held out the bag with the muffins and juice, the kid glanced at Bucky as though for reassurance before he took the bag from Steve. When he bit into a cranberry orange muffin, he looked a bit surprised, and then pleased. Bucky thought it was a little bit adorable.

"And I brought you more _real _breakfast," Bucky said, sitting next to the kid and putting the McDonald's bag between them. "Because _I'm_ the smart one between the two of us."

Steve made a halfhearted sound of protest, but the kid smiled at him, lips sticky with cranberry and muffin crumbs. He brought one hand to his chin and touched the tips of his fingers to it before bringing the hand away in an arc.

Bucky was a bit surprised at the gesture, recognizing it as sign language for "thank you". But then he reconsidered his surprise – although he knew that the kid didn't know sign language, that one was a fairly common one for people to know. This in mind, he didn't bother calling attention to it.

"No problem, kid," he said, trying for a smile. He supposed he must have been at least partially successful, because the teen didn't look troubled or caught up at the expression, looking back down to the bag of muffins and coming out with another one. Then he looked back up at Steve, who was still standing, and scooted over on the bench to make room, patting the seat next to him in clear invitation.

Steve's smile was genuine with an undercurrent of sadness as he accepted the offer, but rather than sitting on the seat, he climbed to sit on the arm rest, his feet placed next to the boy. Bucky understood why when he saw that the rest of the space wouldn't have fit Steve's wide body.

The kid didn't look bothered by this, apparently having realized the same thing, and offered the bag of muffins to the blond.

"Thanks," Steve said easily, taking one. "Now, he said your name was…"—he copied the motion that Bucky had shown him days previous—"but it's kinda weird to just keep calling you 'kid' in my head."

The boy looked unconcerned by this information, while at the same time a bit cautious at where Steve might be headed with this.

"I just wondered – if I found out your name, would you be okay with our knowing it?" Steve asked, a bit hesitantly, clearly unsure about how this might be taken by the teen. "Or would you rather we just stuck with the sign?"

But the teen just shrugged uncaringly, biting into a McMuffin and looking pleased to find that it was still a bit warm. He waved his hand as though to say, "go for it".

And Bucky really shouldn't have been surprised – because Steve _was _the "Man With a Plan", after all, and he'd been their tactical commander for a _reason _– but somehow he was caught a bit off guard when Steve immediately laid out his idea.

He went through the alphabet out loud, and when he got to the correct letter, he told the kid to stop him. It was by this method that the brunette spelled out his name, and Bucky marveled at how his best friend could come up with such a simple solution. Of course, he hadn't had electricity shot through his brain hundreds of times in the past seventy years, but still.

"Peter," Steve said with a smile. The kid – Peter – nodded and ducked his head a bit, fiddling with the empty wrapper in his hands a bit awkwardly, like he was suddenly uncertain what to do with himself now that they knew how to address him. Bucky could sympathize – after he had been assigned a name that was more than just "Asset" or "Soldier", he had been a bit nervous whenever someone would say any variation of his name around him. Over time, he had grown more comfortable with it, though at times he would revert back and find himself forgetting to respond when someone called to him.

"Good to meet ya, Pete," Steve expressed genuinely, trying to affect casualness to put the kid at ease. Bucky felt awkward, not knowing what to say and feeling like he was on the outskirts of the conversation where Steve could talk to the kid so naturally.

Trying to sound vaguely normal, he blurted out the first words he could think of to be a part of the conversation again. "Stop hogging all the muffins, Steve, and give me one."

"Yes, Your Highness," Steve snarked without pause for Bucky's (at least to him) uncharacteristic sass, passing the bag over Peter's head for Bucky to grab. Peter jerked a bit, startled at the movement above him, but when Bucky looked at his face he looked neutral and maybe even a bit sheepish, so Bucky didn't mention it.

Bucky wasn't sure how long they stayed there, chatting and – in Peter's case – gesturing, but he finally decided to call it quits when he saw the kid looking a bit sleepy but clearly resisting Morpheus' pull. He traded a look with Steve, and with a smile and a pat to Peter's knee, Steve expressed that they ought to be going, but that they'd be back another time.

Peter smiled up at them gratefully, and Bucky made a point of leaving the rest of the food on the bench beside Peter. He was pretty sure the kid had been keeping away from it under the assumption that eventually Steve and Bucky would decide to eat it, but Bucky just wanted him to eat. Lord only knew where he got his food otherwise, especially because if he was indeed a minor as Bucky supposed and he was hiding from CPS (an organization he was uncertain how he knew about, but the facts were there in his head and he'd confirmed with JARVIS), then he wouldn't be able to go to any of the numerous homeless shelters or soup kitchens around the city for fear of getting caught.

With a wave of farewell and a promise to return soon, the two super soldiers left the kid to his bench.

* * *

"I have a hypothesis," Tony announced as he strolled into the communal kitchen like it was a high society, red carpet event, rather than a normal breakfast with the Avengers. He was also wearing a ratty pair of grey sweatpants and a black wife beater, his feet bare, his face and arms littered with random spots and streaks of engine oil, and his hair in disarray. If you ignored the engine oil, he would've looked exactly like he'd just rolled out of bed. Actually, he probably _had _just woken up from a nap on the couch in his workshop – he didn't look _nearly _well-rested enough to have gotten a full night of sleep. They all recognized the signs of an inventing binge.

Meanwhile, the rest of them were in various states of sleepiness. Steve was looking sweaty like he'd only just come back from his run, a theory confirmed by Sam, who was hunched over his plate of eggs and toast and shoveling it into his mouth at an almost angry pace. He'd clearly been beaten by Steve again, and was sulking while his shirt, drenched in sweat, clung to his back.

Clint, meanwhile, looked like he had only just rolled out of bed, hair sticking in every direction while he sat hunched over an entire coffee pot, drinking directly from the spout and making Bruce wince at the thought of how hot it must be. Clint didn't seem to notice the heat though, and was too sleep deprived to care even if he had.

Bruce sat at the island, eating a bowl of yogurt and granola and making notes in a science journal he had laid out in front of him. Natasha was sitting next to him on the counter, idly swinging her legs a bit while she picked with her fingers at the large bowl of fruit salad beside her. Bucky was probably on his and Steve's floor still; he didn't come to breakfast with everyone else too often, as so many people made him jittery at times.

"What's your hypothesis, Tony?" Steve was the one to ask, because Steve was a saint who actually _cared _to humor his friends when everyone else went on like he wasn't there. Fuckers. They should be more like Steve. Except not too much, because when Steve set his mind to it he was really fucking annoying and their shouting matches were legendary in the Tower. Even Jamal, who manned the coffee cart on the sixteenth floor but still none of the Avengers had actually gone to get coffee from, knew about their shouting matches.

"Okay, so," Tony smacked his hands dramatically on the island, looking at all of them with a look that said 'this is very important, pay attention to me' but that they all ignored with the ease of practice and familiarity with his ways. "Spiderman."

_Now _he had their attention – though it was marginal, as Bruce only glanced up at him before looking back at his yogurt and Natasha gave an acknowledging hum around the grape she'd just popped in her mouth. Still, he'd take what he could get, and he was _sure_ that he'd have their full attention by the end of his speech.

"I gathered all of the video files and records of when Spidey was out doing his business, being a vigilante and all," Tony explained. "And I put them into a calendar, and I found something _ve-ry _interesting..." He made a wordless gesture to JARVIS, and the AI brought up the calendar that Tony was talking about. It showed a span of two weeks, one week stacked on top of the other. Each day was a block of twenty-four full hours, and each event was a block of time, with a note for what it was. It began scrolling to the side, so that they could see not just two weeks, but all the months that Spiderman had been active.

"Except for just a few outliers of major events, and weekends, Spidey keeps his activities to after about three o'clock," Tony said excitedly. He made another gesture, and JARVIS pulled up several pictures of a school that had been partially destroyed and a police report.

"And, that whole issue with the giant lizard trying to infect New York?" Tony reminded them of the events that had occurred with the scientist-turned-monster over a year previous. They had been in Amsterdam at the time, dealing with what they hadn't realized at the time was a Hydra experiment gone awry, taking shape in sentient tulips that tried eating people. By the time they had gotten back, Spiderman had already dealt with the monster and saved New York.

"Apparently this lizard broke into a high school," Tony proclaimed. "Midtown Science High. No one is a hundred percent on what he was doing there, exactly, but a bunch of students said the lizard was looking for someone. Three guesses who.

"_So_," Tony wrapped it up, "I'm _pretty _sure that Spiderman would actually be better named Spider_kid_…he's a high schooler!" He waited a moment, looking at all of them expectantly, before he blew out an exasperated breath. "This is where you guys say, 'Yay, Tony! You're a genius! You figured it out!' And I don't know if you guys just don't _understand_ or if you don't _care_. Fill me in, here."

"I think it's viable," Natasha was the first one to say, affecting an air like she didn't actually care one way or the other, when Tony knew for a fact that she did. "I haven't gotten anything from my contacts, which if he _is _a teenager would make sense. No one would have heard of him until the moment he appeared on the scene, and then everyone knows everything they could already."

"But come on, a _high schooler_?" Clint protested. "Even our resident geniuses haven't figured out the formula to the guy's webs – you really think a _teenager_ could develop that on his own?"

"He does go to a high school that's based in science," Sam offered, looking up from his eggs for the first time. "He could easily be a prodigy on the rise."

"Or what if he's a _teacher _at the high school?" Steve suggested with a creased brow. "It would explain the hours he works, and the knowledge to put something like those webs together."

"Come on, if a _teacher _was creating those webs, he wouldn't be teaching high school," Tony scoffed. "He would be working in a lab somewhere, creating new things for the rest of the world."

"Maybe, maybe not," Bruce shrugged. "Some people want to fly under the radar."

"If he wanted to fly under the radar, he wouldn't be going out in a red and blue spandex suit and catching baddies in his off time," Tony pointed out.

"But the suit disguises his identity, so it's not really _him _that's stopping crime; it's Spiderman," Clint expressed. "Who knows what the guy _actually _looks like?"

"What if it's a girl?" Sam wondered out of the blue. He was given matching looks of incredulousness from everyone on the team. "I'm just saying, the red and blue is flashy. Makes you look at something obvious while the person underneath is expertly hidden."

"Hm, how do I put this delicately?" Tony said thoughtfully, pressing his hands together and touching his fingers to his lips like he was praying. "The suit is skin-tight. It doesn't leave a whole lot to the imagination."

Sam rolled his eyes. "And it's easy to pad a suit that covers your entire body," he snarked. "Aside from any obvious manly features, think about the rest of his body. It's the body of a gymnast – and most gymnasts _are_ girls."

"Wow, how incredibly sexist of you, Samuel," Tony said with exaggeratedly widened eyes.

If Sam kept rolling his eyes, one day they were just going to fall out. "It's not sexist, it's a generalization – there's a difference. Saying girl gymnasts are better than boy gymnasts would be sexist.

"Anyway," he continued, "If Spiderman _is_ a girl, after being named it would make sense to go along with it and add certain features to the suit to perpetuate it."

"Maybe that's why Spidey went mute," Clint pondered. "No one can identify a girl's voice and out her. Him. Whoever."

"How did we even get to this?" Tony said exasperatedly. "I just figured it was a teenager and suddenly you're changing your mind about this guy actually _being _a guy."

"We're just keeping our options open, Tony," Bruce said with an innocent smile in the billionaire's direction. "Every variable and possibility needs to be evaluated before a conclusion can be drawn."

"I hope you're wrong about this one, though," Steve said with a furrowed brow. "I don't like the thought of what Spiderman has seen – or _done _– if I put him in a teenager's mold in my head."

"Hey, if the world were perfect, you wouldn't even be here," Tony said commiseratingly, and then paused when he realized how that sounded. "And by that, I mean that there wouldn't have been a war for you to sign up to fight in the first place. Ergo, no serum. Ergo, you wouldn't have crashed a plane to stop Nazis and then taken a seventy-year ice bath before suiting up to fight an alien army."

"I knew what you meant, Tony," Steve said wryly. "Now, enough of this talk of Spiderman. Come eat some eggs – you look ready to tip over."


	5. Chapter 5

**Guys, it has been a crazy week. I have been doing my finals and then I discovered on Monday that my laptop charger had broken some time in the day without my realizing it and I only had an hour of power left. I just got my new charger yesterday, and I was able to do my final for my science class (just in time!) and now that I'm done with those priorities, I can finally update here! So, that's why this is late. All my files are on this laptop - or, they were, until I backed everything up on my flash drive before posting here, so this stress of possibly losing all of my work won't happen again.**

**Also, thank you to everyone who has said such kind words after the last chapter! You guys are great, and sorry I didn't get to respond to every one of you, but know that I treasure every comment, even if it was nothing more than several heart emojis or a smiley face.**

**Hope you enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

"NAAAAANTS INGONYAMAAA BAGITHI BABAAA!"

Peter raised an eyebrow at Deadpool as the mercenary shrieked the beginning of "The Circle of Life" while running across the opposite rooftop and making a flying leap to the rooftop that Peter sat on. Peter was pretty sure by this point that Deadpool had genuinely mixed up in his head the beginning of The Lion King and Tarzan's call, because he always sang the Zulu part at the beginning of the The Lion King when he was traversing across a long distance, which was more akin to Tarzan as he swung from the vines in the jungle.

"Baby boy!" Deadpool greeted joyfully, popping to his feet and smacking the side of one knee as he did so. The previously awkwardly bent limb snapped into place, but Deadpool didn't seem to notice that much as he trotted over to Peter.

"I have _missed _you!" he exclaimed, grabbing Peter's head and pressing his own face somewhere in the region of his mouth to the side of Peter's head. He made a loud "mwah!" kissing sound to make it perfectly clear what he was doing, and then released him.

"And you, of course, are looking _mighty_ fine as always," Deadpool flirted. Peter was pretty sure that under the mask, he was batting his eyelashes. He paid it no mind though, well used to it by now.

"I got you a gift, Spidey!" Deadpool changed the subject as abruptly as he always did, bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet.

Peter tensed though, because – a gift? That meant that Deadpool was _invested_. In him. And sure, he had known and ignored for a while that Deadpool had formed some weird sort of attachment to him, but he'd been able to justify it to himself by telling himself that that was just Deadpool. He'd just been in the right place at the right time when Deadpool had been bored one day. Even the food could be explained away as politeness – Deadpool happened to be eating at the same time, and, knowing that he would see Spidey, he had ordered enough for both of them.

But – a _gift_? That implied a higher level to their relationship – it implied _friendship_.

And Peter knew he was poisonous. Anyone he spent significant time around ended up dead before long. That was just Peter's curse.

And he was stupid to have allowed his relationship with Deadpool to flourish into what it had. Sure, the man couldn't die, but Peter was pretty sure he could still feel pain. And Peter was selfish to have pulled Deadpool into his metaphorical web.

_Many spiders build their web, and wait for an insect to get caught before they wrap the insect completely in a cocoon-like webbing. Once the insect has tired itself out, the spider will devour their prey whether they are still alive or not._

He remembered reading that in a book somewhere, soon after the spider bite when he was afraid of what his powers might do to him. And he had discovered that while he didn't have those side effects _physically_…this is what had happened metaphorically to the people around him – anyone close enough to be in his web.

"I had a friend once, Vanessa," Deadpool explained, pulling him from his thoughts. "And I mean _friend_ in _every_ sense of the word." His suggestive tone made it absolutely clear what he meant by that. "And she told me several times that I needed to see a psychologist. Psychiatrist? I dunno the difference. A therapy person! And I thought, fuck that, I'm perfectly happy being insane! So she got me a book instead." He pulled a little book from nowhere – really, Peter didn't want to know – and held it out to him.

It was small, probably about a hundred pages, and it said "The Little Book of Mindfulness" across the top. There was a dandelion weed on the front, with seeds floating away like it had just been blown.

"I figure, because you've been so stressed, maybe this will help!" Deadpool exclaimed. "See – '10 Minutes a Day to Less Stress, More Peace'. It's perfect for you! That way you're not stuck with a whole _tome _to read, and it's just a few minutes every day so your normal day stuff doesn't have to be interrupted."

Peter wasn't sure what to do. The gift was thoughtful, but Peter didn't need it, because it wasn't really stress that had made the rash on his arms, and he knew that that's what Deadpool wanted to heal. He knew that it wasn't stress that made it impossible for him to speak, either. So really, this book would be useless to him.

So, it was a useless gift. So, did that really make it a gift? In this case, could he really accept it?

"It's okay if you don't want it, Spidey," Deadpool said, his voice falling just enough for Peter to notice, and he realized that Deadpool had been holding it out for a tad too long with Peter just standing there like an idiot. "I mean, it's secondhand, and kinda beat up – you don't even want to _know _where in my apartment I found it – but I thought it might help you."

For the sake of not hurting the man's feelings, Peter finally reached out and took it from him. Deadpool's posture perked up a bit, but Peter just – _couldn't_. He couldn't stay around to hear the mercenary ramble again.

So, giving a cursory wave goodbye – mostly to let Deadpool know not to follow while thinking they were teaming up for a patrol again – Peter shoved the slim book down the front of his suit, turned, and ran away.

* * *

Peter was caught off guard but somehow unsurprised to see James and his brother – Scott? Stan? S-something – sitting on his park bench – clearly waiting for him – when he walked up to said bench well after the sun rose.

He had left Deadpool the night before, and gone to one of his safe houses near the Hudson to have a bit of a freak out alone. He had only just barely made it into the abandoned, boarded up warehouse when his body had collapsed out from underneath him and the fine tremors that had been running through his body since Deadpool had mentioned bringing him a gift had become full-body shakes.

He wasn't sure how much time he lost to his silent, heaving sobs, curled up on the dirty floor and all his senses screaming at him, but by the time he came back to himself it was dark and he was exhausted, cold, and wet from unknowingly and unintentionally sitting right beneath a leak in the roof. Not only had he been sitting in a large puddle of freezing water, but the rain from earlier that day had caused further dripping above him, splashing drops of cold water across the expanse of his shoulders. He must have been there for a while, because his shoulders were soaked.

He hadn't intended to go out patrolling that night, but when he discovered how wet he was he knew he had to. If he just did what he wanted and curled up to sleep for a while, he had a higher chance of getting sick because he was sitting in the cold wetness. Going out would get his body temperature up a bit higher and go a long way toward drying his Spidey suit.

And so, aching in every bone, he had gone out, feeling like he was trudging through molasses and his Spidey sense a bit slow after its freak out. The weakness had caused a couple of close calls with some thugs, but in the end he turned out alright. Nothing but a few bumps and bruises.

The sun had helped minimally to dry the suit the rest of the way, and when he was finally satisfied, he went to an empty alley to pull on his normal street clothes once again, before slowly making his way to the bench he frequented, hoping to get some sleep.

But, it appeared that that wouldn't be the case with his two visitors, so he made an effort to blink himself more awake so that the other two wouldn't feel bad for being there.

"Peter!" the blond greeted, sounding almost surprised to see him as he rose from the bench.

"What happened?" James practically growled, rising to his feet in front of his brother and Peter blinked at him, hesitating a bit going forward and feeling a bit wary at the danger that he could sense in the older man's voice. Not only that, but his posture was slightly hunched, a bit loose in a way Peter recognized that people trained in combat stood before they attacked. Peter wasn't trained, but he too instinctively fell into the same loose posture before he took down a bad guy. The problem was, he didn't know what he had done to warrant this reaction in the other man.

The blond laid a hand on James' elbow, seeming in reassurance as well as caution. Looking at Peter, he clarified carefully, "You've got quite the shiner there, son."

Peter blinked, hand going up to his cheekbone, where he'd forgotten that he had indeed been clocked earlier that night. He felt like one giant bruise all over his body, and thus the one on his face hadn't registered as particularly important. Now though, he felt a bit embarrassed to be facing the other two with it, even though he knew that the feeling was stupid. So he had a black eye – so what? It would heal soon enough, anyway.

He knew that James and Blondie – dammit, he wished he remembered the blond's name, so he could stop referring to him as that in his head – were worried though, and expecting an explanation.

So, he gave the usual one that he used to give to Aunt May, shrugging and miming a punch toward his face before putting his hands in his pockets and pulling them inside out in a sign for "no money".

"You were _mugged_?" Blondie's expression was appalled as well as angry, immediately understanding what Peter was trying to express. "Who the hell mugs a _homeless _kid?!"

Peter shrugged, affecting a helpless look to show that he didn't know, but that he was used to it. He looked at the empty bench behind the duo, longing to lie down and go to sleep. But the two of them would probably be here for a while, and he would have to wait.

They misinterpreted the look though, and Blondie scooted aside and gestured toward the bench. "Here, sit down," he invited.

Peter didn't really mind the misunderstanding though, and accepted the offer, gratefully sitting down on one end of the bench. He looked at James, a bit uneasy still at the look on his face, but his Spidey sense still wasn't going off so he tried to shove his paranoid feelings away.

James unfortunately caught the look though, and his expression changed instantly to one of guilt and of worry.

"Sorry, kid," he said in his usual scratchy voice, looking away. "'m not gonna hurt ya."

"Buck's just overprotective," Blondie said cheerfully, sitting down on the opposite armrest of the bench, leaving the seat clearly open for James to sit between them. "He's ready and rearing up to go and beat up your muggers for you."

Peter couldn't help the expression of amusement that flitted across his face at that, because he was probably more capable than James was at beating up anyone who might try mugging him, but the thought was nice.

Then his brain went over the blond's comment again, and his eyebrow wrinkled with confusion as James finally sat down beside him, slowly, like he was half expecting Peter to shove him off or wave him away.

"What's wrong?" Blondie asked, seeing his confusion.

Peter's mouth twisted, not knowing how to express his thought. He pointed at Blondie, before moving his hand like he was making a puppet talk. He then pointed at James, and gave the blond a questioning look.

Blondie looked completely lost, but James had been reviewing what they had said, and after a moment, a look of realization crossed his face.

"Steve, you called me 'Buck'," he murmured in an aside, and Peter was relieved not only that he'd understood, but that now he knew Blondie's name!

Steve continued to look confused after James' comment, but James looked back at Peter to clarify, "Childhood nickname. My first name is James, but Stevie's called me Bucky since we were kids."

Peter noticed that the brunette had a nervous look on his face, like he was steeling himself for some kind of adverse reaction, which Peter didn't understand. He thought the name Bucky sounded kinda familiar, but he didn't know why it would be something that he needed to be worried about. James, or Bucky, whatever he wanted to call himself…he was still the kind man who seemed to really care about him, an orphaned, homeless teenager. Peter didn't think that there was anything he could discover about this man that would make him afraid of him, not really.

"Here," Steve said after a long moment where none of them said anything, seemingly waiting for the others. He bent over to pick up the bag between his feet and James' side, leaning across to hand it to Peter. "We brought more food for ya."

Peter allowed his lips to quirk up gratefully, accepting the bag that he'd been smelling the contents of for the past few minutes. He pulled out an egg and sausage McMuffin, and could tell by how it was cooled significantly that the brothers had been waiting for him for a decent amount of time. He didn't mind, though – food was food, and he was glad (if a bit guilty) that the two of them had decided to wait for him. He didn't always make it back to this bench every day, after all, and it wasn't assured that they wouldn't have been wasting their time in waiting for him.

He bit eagerly into his food, famished after not having had anything but fountain water to eat for two days now. Last time he'd eaten had been three days previous; yet another New York hot dog, but this time it had been pulled out of the garbage. The bun had protected the meat inside, so he had rinsed off the meat at a water fountain before eating that and discarding the bread in the duck pond. McDonalds was heavenly after that.

However, his stomach cramped after finishing only one sandwich, and he only managed to eat a bite of the second one before the nausea that rose up warned him of eating anymore, lest he puke.

He was feeling sleepier by then anyway, the hunger pains no longer serving to assist in keeping him awake in front of the two older men. He looked down at his second McMuffin, this one just egg and cheese, and felt his eyes go blurry with fatigue as he looked at it.

"Pete? Hey, Peter, you alright?"

Steve's voice pulled him out of his mental fog, and he looked up at his kindly concerned face, realizing that he couldn't remember any of the conversation or what was said after he had accepted the food. That was pretty rude, he thought. They wouldn't like that, no sir.

But the twin expressions gazing at him showed nothing but concern, no anger or disappointment, and Peter couldn't help feeling a bit safe in their presence. He took a deep breath, inhaling the cool early Spring air, but rather than feeling energized by it he felt a wave of exhaustion pass over him, insisting that he go to sleep.

He didn't realize that he had listed forward until he felt James' hand on his arm, steadying him. Peter was leaning against his left arm though, and the man wasn't pushing him away so much as holding him upright, as though to make sure he was okay.

"Hey, you alright, kid?" the brunette asked gruffly.

And, well, maybe he wouldn't _normally _do this, but he was exhausted, okay? And Steve and James were trustworthy – he knew they wouldn't do anything bad to him while he slept. His Spidey sense hummed in the back of his mind, but not like he was in danger – more like it was curling up with a fuzzy blanket in some corner of his brain, ready to take a nap.

He snuffed a small breath out through his nose in lieu of words to say he was fine, and leaned against James' shoulder. He thought it felt a bit hard and solid under him, and wondered if the guy worked out a lot, but he was too tired to really ponder that thought all that much. James stiffened uncomfortably for a moment, his entire body freezing and hand hovering over his other arm, before he slowly relaxed beneath him.

"Here," he murmured quietly, lifting Peter off him a little bit and scooting to the end of the bench. Peter squinted his eyes open enough to see Steve get off the bench, crossing his vision to sit on the ground in front of them. Then James was guiding Peter down again, so that he was lying down with his head on the older man's lap. Peter let out a breath of satisfaction at the makeshift pillow, closing his eyes as he felt a hand rest gently, hesitatingly on Peter's hair.

"Go to sleep, kid," Peter thought he muttered to him, but by then, he was too far gone to be sure. He was asleep in moments.

* * *

Steve watched as Peter ate his food, noticing as he gradually began to slow down until he was finally just staring at the sandwich that had a single bite taken from it. He began to grow concerned when the kid just continued to stare at it, gaze blank and eyes half-lidded. He trailed off from his conversation with Bucky, watching the young boy with concern.

"Pete?" Steve finally called, trying to get his attention. "Hey, Peter, you alright?"

Peter looked up at him, and Steve was suddenly struck by how _young _the kid looked. And yet, so bone-weary tired at the same time. Someone Peter's age shouldn't look like that, shouldn't be going through what he did. Steve had long since stopped being angry at the world for matters such as this, however. If living through the Depression hadn't taught him that the world was an unfair place, nothing would. It didn't stop the ache when he _still _saw these kinds of things though, even in the twenty-first century.

He watched, still concerned and wondering what was wrong, as Peter took a deep breath like he was about to say something, before he let it out and then seemed to just…fall forward.

Bucky quickly steadied him, flesh hand going up to catch Peter's arm.

"Hey, you alright, kid?" Bucky asked. Steve could hear the worry laced underneath it, though it came out in his usual gruff tone.

Peter, of course, didn't respond to this, only snuffing rather adorably before seeming to come to a decision and leaning against Bucky's metal arm.

Steve couldn't see Bucky's expression, as his face was turned to look at Peter, but he watched as Bucky's entire body tensed, hand freezing centimeters from Peter's arm, and he could imagine the fear and trepidation Bucky was feeling. Much of the time he wasn't even okay with touch from his best friend, so coming from the less familiar kid, he knew that Bucky was freaking out a bit inside.

Steve was just leaning forward, about to offer to trade places with Bucky, when the other man seemed to just…relax. He paused, hesitating and unsure what to do, when Bucky shifted, scooting over a bit and lifting Peter slightly off of him.

"Here," he heard Bucky say quietly to the boy, and Steve immediately knew what Bucky was doing and moved off of the arm rest of the bench to allow Bucky to move to the end. Bucky guided Peter to lie back down, his head now resting on Bucky's lap. Peter let out a sigh of contentment, snuggling in like Bucky was a particularly comfortable pillow and letting his eyes fall the rest of the way closed.

"Go to sleep, kid," Bucky muttered to Peter, and Peter instantly obeyed, though that may not have had anything to do with Bucky's words and more to do with how clearly exhausted the boy was, now that Steve was looking.

Settling on the ground in front of the bench, Steve could now see Bucky's face, and his heart broke anew at what he saw.

Bucky looked so – _afraid_, but not with a fear for himself, but for the possibility of hurting this sweet boy sleeping on top of him and trusting him so much to do so. His hand trembled minutely as he gently carded his fingers through the kid's brown locks, while he had moved his metal arm to rest on the back of the bench, away from Peter's thin form. But while there was very clear fear there, Steve could also see how touched Bucky was, and how protectiveness radiated from every pore of his body, daring anyone to try and take him away from this kid.

Steve smiled fondly at the sight – it was like looking into a slightly tarnished glass into the past. He wasn't exactly the carefree Bucky that Steve had grown up with, but he was so clearly protective in the same way he had been toward Steve when he was so sickly that he couldn't help how his heart swelled.

Bucky happened to glance over, seeing the expression on Steve's face and instantly ducking his head awkwardly.

"Shuddup, punk," he muttered.

"I didn't say anything!" Steve protested, but unable to help the smile that spread across his face.

"Y' didn' _have _to," Bucky retorted, voice low so that he wouldn't wake up the sleeping child on his lap. He gave Steve a wry look. "I know that look well enough."

Steve's smile softened, and his gaze drifted down to look at Peter's sleeping face. His mouth was parted slightly, but no snores escaped with his gentle breathing.

"He's good for you," Steve found himself saying. Bucky's hand stilled for a moment where it was combing Peter's hair, before resuming the soothing motions. He didn't say anything though, and Steve decided to take it as a prompting to continue. "You're not so…flat, when you're with him. You just let yourself focus on him. It's good – you seem…happier. More calm."

Bucky was quiet for a long moment, processing these words with lips turned down a bit in thought. "He's dealing with shit," he finally said. "And it's not harder or easier than mine; it's just – a shit deal. I s'pose I don't think about _me_ so much when I'm with him – I don't worry about the shit I've been through, 'cause I just want _him _to be okay."

Steve quirked a smile at his best friend in understanding, because that? He absolutely understood and related to. It was the same thing whenever any of them went out on an Avengers call – they had to focus on the task at hand, at helping _other _people. Each of them had PTSD, and could largely forget about it in the heat of battle. It was the reason Steve had gotten right back to work upon coming out of the ice – it allowed him to focus on other people and their problems, and not his feelings on waking up in a new century with everyone else he knew in his life dead or nearly there.

He supposed that Bucky's attachment to Peter was a bit healthier than jumping out of a plane without a parachute, though.

He changed the subject then, talking about whatever mindless thing he thought up, and Peter continued to sleep the entire time. Steve might have been worried about how the boy didn't move or fidget at all in his sleep, but he kept an ear on his breathing (which sounded normal) and figured he was just a deep sleeper. Odd, that, with being homeless and surely having to sleep with one figurative eye open to keep himself safe, but he supposed everyone had their quirks.

They had been sitting there chatting quietly and sometimes sitting in silence for almost an hour when Steve felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Pulling it out, he saw a text from Tony.

_Tornado in Nebraska with a portal to unknown places in the center of it. Suit up, we leave the Tower in 20._

Steve immediately looked up apologetically at Bucky, but Bucky was already waving him off, recognizing the look on his face.

"I get it, you've gotta go save the world," Bucky told him.

"Will you be okay here?" Steve couldn't help asking.

Bucky rolled his eyes, and they both chose to ignore the tension that was in his body that hadn't been there moments prior.

"Yes, I've been alone with him before," Bucky reminded him. "Go on. I'll explain when he wakes up. Don't do anything stupid out there."

Steve smirked at the familiar refrain. "How can I?" he snarked. "You're taking all the stupid with you."

Bucky waved him off with feigned irritation, unable to hide his fond smile as Steve laughed and jogged off. Once the blond was gone, he looked back down at the child sleeping on top of him. He wished there was something he could do for the kid, some way he could make his life a little easier. He wished he could somehow repay him for unknowingly helping him to feel calmer just with his presence. But he didn't even know where he would start.

He wasn't sure how long he remained lost in his thoughts, petting Peter's hair and pondering life as he knew it, but it must have been at least half an hour when he felt Peter's entire body tense suddenly.

Faster than he could blink, he saw Peter's eyes shoot open even as he bolted upright in his seat, narrowly missing cracking Bucky in the jaw with his skull. He glanced wildly around, looking panicked, and Bucky laid a hand tentatively on his arm, wondering if the kid had had a nightmare and needed to be pulled back to the present. The wild look on Peter's face certainly seemed to support it as he looked around for any sign of foe.

"Hey, kid," Bucky said cautiously when Peter's head snapped around, meeting his gaze with surprisingly steady eyes, all things considering. Bucky reconsidered his thought that Peter needed to be pulled back to the present, but he still didn't know what could possibly put that look on the kid's face. "Are you alright? What's wrong?"

Peter's gaze darted away from Bucky's, almost dismissively, looking around everywhere else, still with that panicked look. Then suddenly, he shot toward Bucky, yanking him down and off the bench. The move was so surprising and fast that Bucky found himself on the ground before he knew what was happening.

A moment later, a high buzzing sound filled his ears, and a bullet whizzed past his head.

* * *

**I honestly hadn't meant to get to the action this early in the fic…but it just fell together like this and my ideas fell in line for the next several chapters, so…I decided to roll with it.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Slight Endgame spoiler warning:**

**Endgame completely wrecked me. I have not stopped sobbing. It was so perfectly bittersweet and horrible and wonderful and AGH.**

**But we are not taking MCU canon into account, of course not. If you've made it this far without figuring that out, I worry for the intelligence of you and your hypothetical children. So there will be no spoilers in this fic, because we veered off canon rails before this fic even started.**

**And that's all. I hope you all enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

Peter was awakened out of a dead sleep by his Spidey sense ringing in the back of his head. He was immediately irritated, because the sleep had actually been surprisingly restful for once, so of _course _something had to come along and ruin it. That was just Parker luck for you.

The ringing was insistent though, and one that spelled immediate impending danger rather than just an alert that someone was approaching, so Peter shot up and tried to get his bearings quickly to see where he needed to run or fight.

He heard a familiar voice call to him, and he turned to see James – Bucky – whatever he was called – looking at him with cautious concern.

That's right. He'd fallen asleep on top of the man, like some kind of overtired baby. God, that was so embarrassing.

But he had no time to focus on that, because his Spidey sense was still an insistent ringing in the back of his mind, and he wondered for a moment if James was the source of it. But no, he could have done anything in – wow, based on the sun's location, he'd been asleep for more than an hour – all the time he'd been sleeping, and besides, James was just way too nice and concerned right now for him to be the cause of his Spidey sense warning him of oncoming danger.

So, he looked away from the older man, looking around him quickly and urgently for what the feeling could possibly be coming from.

A moment later, the ringing in his mind rose shrilly, and instinctively, he lunged forward, grabbed James, and yanked him down to the ground.

And not a moment too soon, because what looked like a bullet whizzed past where James' head had just been, and a high buzzing sound filled Peter's ears. He cringed at it uncomfortably as it tickled something painfully in his brain. James had a similar wince on his face, though his was a lot more subtle as his expression went to one of intense focus in a heartbeat.

The ringing in Peter's mind had quieted down some, and Peter knew that they didn't have much time before whoever was attacking got their bearings enough that they could attack again.

James was looking around them with a dangerous expression that seemed somehow simultaneously out of place as well as at home on his face, and Peter wondered how that was possible. He wasn't moving though, only looking in the direction the bullet had come from like he could glare whoever had shot at them into submission. Either that, or like when he found the person he was ready to throw down on them.

Peter tugged on James' arm, trying to get him to his feet, because they ought to get somewhere safe, somewhere with more buildings to block weapons coming at them as well as more people so that the ones trying to be anonymous in their attack either had to come out in the open or abandon their attack plan for the day. Peter of course hoped that it was the latter, because no civilians should be getting hurt in this but he also needed to know who it was so that he knew how to defend himself.

Those were thoughts for another time though, because right now he needed to focus on getting them the _heck out of there_. You know, so they _survived_.

James wasn't allowing himself to be pulled along though, and Peter made a note to wonder later how the man could withstand Peter's own super strength. Right now, James was moving toward where the bullet had gone, and Peter wanted to scream with frustration, because they were_ under attack _and James wanted to go _treasure hunting_!

The ringing of his Spidey sense rose shrilly again, and this time rather than yanking James down to the ground, he grabbed him by the arm and pulled him towards him. It was just in time to avoid another bullet, and Peter heard the high buzzing sound again. He figured that these must not be actual bullets, but something else to take them down. Otherwise it wouldn't take so long to reload whatever weapon it was that was firing these things.

James finally saw reason at this second attack, and when Peter began to run the opposite direction, out of the park and toward the city, he easily followed alongside and kept pace with him, his face set in stone.

Peter was panicking, because who _were _these guys? Why were they attacking? Now that they were away from the most immediate danger, he wondered – had they discovered his identity? How? And why attack when he was with someone else? He was alone so often, he could be taken and disposed of without anyone knowing, and wasn't _that_ a depressing thought? If he ever went missing or died, no one would ever know.

He shook those melancholy thoughts from his mind though, because _holy chicken nugget _a bullet had just lodged itself into the brick of the building between his and James' heads.

"Can't aim for _shit_," he heard James mutter to himself, which Peter kind of thought was a weird thing to be worried about while being shot at, but he supposed that everyone had their coping mechanisms, and maybe James' was judging their attackers' aim.

Although, looking at him, Peter didn't think that James looked all that scared. Oh, he was a bit nervous, but he didn't show any of the fear that Peter would've expected a civilian to face when being shot at. Then again, Peter didn't really know him. Maybe he wasn't actually a civilian – maybe he had been a soldier in the Middle East. Come to think of it, that would actually make a lot of sense and explain a lot about him – not the least of which was how buff he was, in a way that wasn't like a gym rat who guzzled protein shakes and lifted weights but like someone who actually used those muscles in whatever work he had.

"They were in one of the buildings in the complex behind the park," James said, and it took Peter a moment to realize that the man was talking to him, which was dumb because who else would he be talking to? Curiously, he didn't sound strained or out of breath at all from the running. Sure, Peter slowed a bit to allow the older man to keep pace with him, but he didn't seem to be struggling at all to keep up. At this realization, Peter sped up a little, knowing that James would be able to handle it if he already found it easy.

"We've got at least two on our tail, because that last shot couldn't have come from the same guy as the first one," James continued, and then held a phone up to his ear that Peter hadn't even realized was in his hand.

"We need extraction," he barked into it, voice even and not nearly panicked enough, in Peter's opinion. Also, who was he talking to? "Me and Peter – at least two gunmen, not shooting bullets. Currently on foot, approaching downtown from the east. We – _shit_!"

Peter had been following alongside James, content to follow his lead for a bit while he figured out what to do, when his Spidey sense suddenly screamed at him and he instinctively grabbed Bucky's arm, pulling him to the side and into a wall. A volley of bullets – Peter was pretty sure they were _actual _bullets, this time – echoed through the alley they were running through as they passed over where the two of them had been a moment prior.

"I don't know!" James shouted into the phone speaker, but not like he was angry, exactly – more like he was trying to talk over someone for the sake of time. "Hydra doesn't offer a 401K! Just get me backup, _now_!"

Peter decided to change direction, tugging James' arm as the other man hung up and shoved the phone in his pocket.

"Kid, I'm so sorry," James said as he followed Peter's lead this time. "I didn't mean to get you caught up in my mess."

That was funny, Peter thought, because if he had a voice he would be saying the exact same thing to the other man. He didn't have time to wonder what James meant by that, exactly, because he was busy getting his bearings for where they were so that he could figure out which direction to go to get to the nearest safe house.

So, he didn't respond in any way to James, instead leading them quickly through streets and side alleys, constantly turning and changing directions, in case their attackers caught up.

He was just beginning to think it was safe once more, and their attackers had given up for another day, when he felt his Spidey sense begin to tingle again as they approached another side street. He jerked to a stop before they could cross another street, trying to quiet his breathing so that he could listen.

It seemed quiet – or as quiet as downtown New York could really be – but still Peter's Spidey sense was tingling in warning at him. James was giving him an odd look, clearly wondering why he had stopped, but Peter only shook his head slowly, unsure.

But, his senses had never led him wrong before, so he pulled back, retracing their steps to another street a little ways back before they continued on their way.

The attack was sudden enough that he had only an instant of his Spidey sense ringing in his mind before what seemed a whole _army _of guys came charging out from a street in front of them. Peter grabbed James' arm, beginning to yank them back to run the other way, when another six guys came out from behind them.

Peter was just beginning to think – _screw it, I'll climb up this wall with James on my back, who cares about a secret identity when you're dead _– when he heard a sickening thud and crack behind them. Whirling around, he saw a man fighting one group of attackers, dressed in…well, it was clearly a vigilante costume. It was deep red, almost burgundy, and –

Oh. He saw the horns on the mask, and kicked himself for not remembering Daredevil – the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, as they called him. He must have changed his costume since Peter had last seen him, because he didn't recall seeing the horns before. He supposed they were more fitting to his name now, though.

Daredevil was taking out attackers left and right, and suddenly Peter felt like they were on a bit more even ground again. He swiftly joined in the fight, not really all that surprised when James followed suit. He could definitely hold his own too, he noticed as he jabbed a man in the face with his elbow. It wasn't _entirely _unexpected, with his suspicions that the guy might be ex-military, but it was still surprising. These were a _lot _of guys. He would have thought only someone who was enhanced could hope to fight off this many, but then maybe he wasn't being fair to the unenhanced. James clearly had some kind of training, to be able to hold his own. Maybe he had been Special Ops – he knew that they got more extensive combat training than the rest of them.

The fifteen were down quickly with all three of them fighting, and Peter was staring down at them all strewn around him, about to relax while thinking that this must be all of them for such an attack, when James spoke up.

"Hydra," he said, his voice a growl. He was staring down at a pile of men, at the patches on their shoulders with the skull and tentacles. Peter was taken aback at the hatred in his voice, uncharacteristic from the man that he had known and spent time with for a few weeks now.

"There will be more," James went on, looking up, and something flashed across his face when he met Peter's eyes before he looked away. Peter wondered at the expression – maybe regret? That's what it seemed like, but Peter couldn't be certain, the look had disappeared so quickly.

"There _are _more," Daredevil confirmed. "About six blocks south, but they're approaching rapidly. We need to move quickly."

"Steve send you?" James questioned gruffly, rising to his feet.

Daredevil tilted his head. "No," he said simply. "I was in the area." He looked at Peter then, jerking his head the opposite direction. "C'mon kid, let's get out of here."

Peter let off a sloppy salute, glancing at James, who was considering Daredevil with a narrow-eyed gaze. A moment later, he followed Daredevil, glancing at Peter as though to make sure he was still following.

"Who'd you say you were?" James practically demanded, and Peter wondered how this guy could never have heard of Daredevil before. He had a Brooklyn accent sometimes – he _had _to have heard of him at some point. But then he remembered him saying that he was back in New York after a while away, so he supposed he could accept that he hadn't heard of the vigilante. He didn't know how long James had been back, and perhaps it was a short enough time that he hadn't gotten all caught up on New York's vigilantes. There were a lot of them, in retrospect, and Daredevil stuck mostly to Hell's Kitchen, unlike those like Jessica Jones or Spiderman who roamed the city as pleased them (or as was convenient, in his case).

Then he remembered – James had mentioned Steve to Daredevil. Asked if Steve had sent him. He remembered James' call to someone, demanding backup and extraction. But that phrasing – he wondered if James _and _Steve had been in the army. Maybe together? It was all he could think of for why Bucky would call his brother for help with the kind of terminology he had used.

"I didn't," Daredevil called back to James without turning. "Kid knows me, though."

James' gaze swerved sharply to Peter, and Peter nodded in confirmation, giving a thumbs up to show that all truly was well. James' look of suspicion diminished, though it didn't fade entirely.

They ran quietly for several minutes, with Daredevil and occasionally Peter directing them away from some particular street, knowing that that way spelled further danger. Peter wasn't really sure where they were going at this point, simply following Daredevil's lead, but he didn't mind. He may not know the other vigilante very well, but he knew that he was honorable, and he trusted him.

The entire time they ran, Peter ran everything he knew about this situation through his head. Regrettably, it was not much. James had said it was Hydra, which was easy to deduce when you saw the creepy patches on their shoulders. But why on earth would Hydra be after _Peter_? Peter was nothing special – just a homeless kid from Queens, just like a thousand others all throughout the city.

Or – what if they knew he was Spiderman? Oh, God, was his secret out?

No, he kicked himself mentally a moment later for his paranoia. If his secret was out, they wouldn't have tried a sneak attack. They would have come head-on.

Probably.

Also, why was James so calm about all this? They'd just been shot at and attacked. He's pretty sure Daredevil had actually _killed_ some of those agents rather than knocking them out. And here James was, acting like running from people who were intent on killing you was normal? It certainly made Peter wonder what _else _he didn't know about the guy.

Peter noted that they were approaching Bed-Stuy in Brooklyn, which he wondered at the reasoning behind. Why did they need to go so far southwest? That was definitely not Daredevil's usual area in Hell's Kitchen. Come to think of it, why was the guy even out? It was broad daylight. Daredevil usually only ran at night.

He pushed it aside though when Daredevil strode with purpose across the street and to a tall apartment building in somewhat decent shape. Peter wondered briefly if this was where Daredevil lived, but this idea was proven invalid when the vigilante pressed deliberately on one of the buttons next to the front door.

"The fuck are you doing at my door so early?" a voice grumbled through the speaker, and Peter was suddenly struck by the feeling that that voice was eerily familiar, though he couldn't quite place it.

"I need sanctuary," Daredevil answered blandly, looking completely unaffected by the vitriol in the apartment owner's voice. Peter supposed that if he was close enough to someone that he would think of them first for sanctuary when being shot at that he must have been close enough to the guy that a bit of anger at being awakened early wouldn't affect him.

The voice grumbled and disconnected the line, and for a moment Peter thought he was denying the request, but a moment later there was a buzz and the door opened.

"What is going on?" James hissed, looking uncomfortable even as he followed the line of Daredevil and Peter inside the building, letting the door click shut behind him. "Who is this guy?"

"He is an ally," Daredevil answered simply. "He's ex-special forces, so he's well able to protect himself and anyone else with him. Not to mention some other…abilities to keep him safe."

"I'm not going to stay with _anyone_," James practically growled as Matt pressed the button for the elevator to go up. "And why the hell are you trusting an _elevator_ when we've got Hydra on our backs? We'll be sitting in a box!"

Daredevil raised an eyebrow sardonically, his mask moving with it. "Unless you'd rather climb the stairs to the twelfth floor…which would take longer and would pose a higher risk of getting stuck in the stairwell.

"As for who's staying," he continued, stepping into the elevator and giving the couple who exited a nod of acknowledgement at their gawking looks, "_You_ won't be. We're dropping the kid off to draw them away from him. Then you and I will continue on to another safe house until your friends get back. Your usual accommodations are too heavily guarded right now to risk trying to get you in there without more backup."

Peter was confused at this last part, but he didn't dwell on it because he was too caught up on the first part, where Daredevil had said _he _would be staying with this random guy. All alone.

He couldn't do that, he thought in a panic as the elevator began to rise. He would put this poor guy in danger just by his presence, just like he did for James and for everyone else he ever spent a significant amount of time with.

"I can keep the kid safe," James growled at Daredevil, which Peter maybe a little bit resented, because he was _Spiderman_; he could keep himself safe, but seeing as James didn't know that first bit he let it go.

"I'm sure you could," Daredevil agreed. "But we're trying to get him away so that Hydra doesn't recognize him, which will keep him far safer than if he had to look over his shoulder for the rest of his life if you decided to keep running together before your team gets back."

Peter almost laughed to himself at the comment, because he was _already_ always looking over his shoulder and it had nothing to do with Hydra – or at least, he'd _thought_ it hadn't until today. Then again, he looked over his shoulder as Spiderman, with the fear that someone might figure out his secret. It would be entirely different to have to watch himself even when just plain old Peter Parker.

Some of his amusement must have shown on his face though, because abruptly James' glower at Daredevil changed to concern for Peter, and he was crouching down slightly, resting a hand on his shoulder. Peter supposed James must have thought he was hysterical with fear, or something of the like.

"Hey, everything will be alright," James said quietly, for once not looking awkward at the attempted reassurance. "I'm…_really _sorry for all this."

Peter couldn't attempt any kind of wordless argument that it was _his _fault though and James had no reason to be apologizing, because just then the elevator dinged to announce its arrival on the twelfth floor, and they stepped out onto standard quality, drab carpet. They walked down the hall as the elevator closed behind them, and Peter impulsively grabbed James' hand. James startled at the hold, looking at him with widened eyes, but Peter simply smiled and patted the oddly cool left hand with his other. He pointed at Daredevil, walking just ahead of them, and then made the "okay" sign with his thumb and forefinger, smiling wider to emphasize his point. He wanted James to trust Daredevil so that he could be safe.

He figured that after they left him with this ex-special forces guy, he could fake tiredness and the need for a nap, and perhaps close himself in the bedroom, sneak out the window, don his Spidey costume, and follow the two to make sure they were safe. He didn't want to put danger on this poor guy that Daredevil trusted, but he also needed to not be a distraction for the two older men, because they were worried about a _kid _with them when really they needed Spidey's presence. So he could pretend, for a few minutes, and go along with it all to make sure they could be safe.

James smiled at Peter in understanding, but he looked more awkward now than he had moments before. Peter let go of his hand, wondering if the man was uncomfortable with the familiar touch, and ignored the little hurt feeling that tried to squiggle its way into his chest. James wasn't his friend – there was no reason to feel this at the rejection from the guy. He just wanted him to be safe.

Daredevil had hardly knocked on the door of 1217 when there was a repetitive sliding and clinking on the other side of the door. Peter blinked, recognizing the sound of deadbolts and chains and padlocks unsliding, and wondered just how paranoid this guy was that there were so many locks on the door.

And then the door swung open, and suddenly everything clicked into place.

Because standing there in full red and black Kevlar regalia was Deadpool himself.

"Come in, come in," the man grumbled, his tone belying the solicitous words as he waved them inside. Peter was a bit surprised to see the interior, because he wouldn't have pegged it as Deadpool's style at _all_. The curtains were black, but they were pulled back to allow the light to shine through the blinds. The couch was clearly older, but it was still in good condition, black pleather with a couple of burgundy pillows. There was a coffee table in front of the couch, which wasn't the cleanest but was still better than some Peter had seen before. Really, the only thing that seemed like Deadpool's style was the crate of guns sitting right in front of the TV and the two katanas hanging right next to the front door. Really, it was _tame _for the guy; Peter would have either expected much more extravagance (he knew that Deadpool made a lot of money from his work as a mercenary), or a total pig sty with fast food wrappers and other trash all over the place. But the apartment as a whole was neat and clean, with the exception of the weapons that told all that this was no average family's apartment.

"I hope you know the night I had last night," Deadpool complained as he closed the door behind them. "I do _not _deserve to be awakened at this ungodly hour."

They all decided politely not to mention how it was indeed past noon, because really, the guy kept odd hours. This could justifiably be ungodly for him.

"Thanks for doing this, Wade," Daredevil said, though while the words were grateful and Peter was sure that the guy was genuine, he didn't _sound _super grateful. It was odd, and left Peter feeling a bit off-kilter. He wondered how good of friends the two of them actually _were_, because the flatness with which they talked with each other either meant they were good enough friends that it didn't bother them, or they were just weird. Upon reflection, Peter decided that it was probably the latter. If Daredevil and Deadpool were friends already, then Deadpool would have no reason to hang out with Spiderman so much. After all, Daredevil had no compunctions about killing people on the job. It would make more sense to work with a guy who worked the same way, after all.

Deadpool waved his hand dismissively at Daredevil's thanks. "Yeah, yeah. So, who's having a sleepover at _Casa Deadpool_?" It seemed that as he continued to wake up, he was becoming more the hyper Deadpool that Peter was used to. He found it extremely amusing to discover that the man was not a morning person.

"The kid is," Daredevil responded, and James swiftly cut in before he could go on.

"His name is Peter," he said, and Deadpool's gaze snapped over to Peter, eyeing him up and down in an assessing manner. Peter, at least, was used to staring from Deadpool, and didn't fidget, simply blinking at him through the evaluation.

"Peter needs to stay for probably twenty-four hours," Daredevil explained, immediately accepting the name into his vocabulary. "At least until it's dark. Barnes and I will continue on to another safe house, in case any are still watching and following."

"If he gets hurt, I will know who to blame," James said, staring Deadpool down, which Peter may have been a little impressed by. Most people were at least a _little _scared of Deadpool.

"Yeah, yeah, you'll go all not-so-ex-assassin on my ass," Deadpool waved dismissively. "Don't worry, Peter Piper will be just fine here. Now both of you, get out. I don't need Hydra figuring out where _I _live. I _hate _house hunting."

James gave Deadpool one last glare of warning, before following Daredevil out the door. Peter watched them go, praying to whatever deity out there that his curse would be unable to touch the two of them now that the distance between them was widening.

"So," Deadpool pulled Peter's gaze away from the closed front door of the apartment, and he looked to see the man trotting into the kitchen. Peter followed, not knowing what else to do. "I've never babysat for an actual _baby_ before, so I don't know what you like to eat." Peter scowled, not appreciating being called a baby. He was _sixteen_, dammit! And he'd be seventeen soon, in like…seven months. Nineteen months wasn't _that _far from being an actual adult.

Deadpool opened the fridge, examining the contents inside as he continued, "Got any preferences? I have leftover pizza, leftover Chinese, leftover Mexican – oh, wait, that's for me, there's only one serving left and you can't have it – or I have a shitton of cereal. Or we can always order in – it's after noon, so most places deliver by now."

Peter bit his lip anxiously, because Deadpool was waiting for an answer, but the man's back was turned and he wouldn't see that Peter _couldn't _answer.

Deadpool recognized the silence fairly quickly though, and he turned his head toward Peter, still bent over the fridge.

"Cat got your tongue?" Deadpool said, though he didn't sound impatient, just curious. Then, in typical Deadpool fashion, his thoughts were completely derailed and without waiting for an answer he went on, "Where does that phrase even _come_ from?! Did a cat literally steal some powerful person's tongue and it was really well-known so it just became a metaphor from there? Yellow, write this down – I need to research where this comes from. It's probably some really fucked up shit."

Knowing that Deadpool could ramble on forever, Peter decided to cut it off at the pass, not really in the mood to deal with it at the moment, feeling very exposed as it was without his usual mask when in the mercenary's presence. He moved forward, pointing at one of the leftover boxes at random, which happened to be a box of Chinese takeout.

"Excellent, Chinese is great," Deadpool enthused, grabbing all of the Chinese he could find and going to pile it on the table. He only had to shove three guns aside to make room, but Peter didn't really mind. He had expected nothing less, really.

"So, at the risk of sounding like an utter dick – though really, that's nothing different from usual," Deadpool said, grabbing a fork and giving it to Peter before going to sit on the counter, swinging his legs like a child, "There a reason you're not talking to me? Because you definitely don't look like it's out of fear, which is the normal response when people see me, really. Though perhaps your fear manifests as passiveness." He squinted contemplatively at him.

Peter just pointed to his throat though, shrugging, because he really didn't know how to tell the mercenary that he _couldn't _speak.

Deadpool got it though, and his eyes widened with what seemed to be delight.

"No shit?" he exclaimed. "Spidey's mute too! Now I know _two _people who don't speak! Is this a sign from God?" he wondered.

Peter just gave him a look that clearly communicated, "What the hell?" Deadpool actually got it, because he could actually see Peter's full expression this time without the mask covering it.

He didn't explain himself though, instead asking, "Do you know sign language? Spidey doesn't." Peter shook his head and Deadpool sighed with his whole body.

"Dammit," he said in disappointment. "I was hoping you could help teach me. All I know are the letters, and even _that's _iffy, because I always get 'm' and 't' mixed up!"

Peter half-smiled and half-smirked in mock consolation, poking his fork into the box of sweet and sour pork, which smelled absolutely heavenly. Then he paused, looking back up at Deadpool, who had no food in his hands and no apparent intention of getting some. It was odd, because Peter was used to eating _with _the other man. He gave him a questioning, confused look, and Deadpool waved his hand dismissively.

"No worries, Petey-Pie," he assured, "I'll eat later; you do you."

Peter narrowed his eyes at him, and suddenly with a flash of insight he understood. Peter knew Deadpool, was familiar with him, had eaten with him a dozen times by that point. But to Deadpool, Peter was a stranger that he didn't know how he was going to react to the sight of his scarred face. And he was just a kid in the mercenary's eyes, who didn't need to see those kinds of things.

Peter _wanted _Deadpool to trust him with this, though – as Peter. Not just as Spidey.

So, though it was painful to delay food even longer, he pointedly set the box with the fork still inside back on the table, and went back to the fridge, grabbing the Mexican because it was Deadpool's favorite food in the world, and crossed the small distance in the kitchen to hand it to Deadpool. Having seen where Deadpool had grabbed the fork, he opened the drawer himself, got a fork, and handed it to the suited man.

Deadpool was staring at him with a furrowed brow in consternation as well as discomfort, but Peter pretended not to notice, going back to his seat at the table and picking up the box and fork again. He looked over at Deadpool again, who was just sitting there frozen, clearly uncertain what to do and eyeing Peter probably like he was a crazy person. Peter couldn't tell – the expression was covered by the mask.

Peter gestured pointedly with his box and fork, and when Deadpool still didn't move to eat, he gave him the most reassuring smile that he could, trying to convey – _it's okay, I'm not judging, just **eat**_.

The smile seemed to work, because slowly, hesitating, Deadpool grabbed the edge of his mask, beginning to push it up. To help make him feel more comfortable and less like he was being stared at, Peter turned to the pork and shoved a bite in his mouth. He saw out the corner of his eye as Deadpool left the mask resting just above his nose, displaying the usual mottled and scarred skin. He purposely looked over when the mercenary lifted a chimichanga to his lips, and pretended not to notice how the man froze, clearly expecting disgust.

Instead, Peter gave him a friendly smile and continued to eat. This pork really was delicious.

After a moment, Deadpool relaxed and began eating as well, and Peter mentally marked it as a success.

* * *

**Okay, so. My plan with throwing Matt in here was to keep Deadpool out of it, because Peter and Bucky needed help but I needed the Avengers gone but I also didn't want Deadpool to see Peter's face until the identity reveal a long time from now.**  
**But then I thought…but Deadpool and Peter would be so great.**

**And so Matt's job was replaced and it just feels like I put him in here for no reason at all by this point.**

**At some point Matt will return. I don't know when anymore. But I really adore him so it will happen. Probably.**

**Some day I'm actually going to write the storyline as I outline it beforehand. However, today is not that day.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Trigger warning: suicidal thoughts, not of someone considering it but remembering how it feels to think like that and worrying that someone else might be going through the same thing. Not said in explicit detail, but be careful with yourselves, lovelies!**

* * *

"Well, I knew already before that you were a cutie-patootie, but _damn_!" Were the words that Deadpool greeted him with when Peter came into the living room.

After eating – wherein Deadpool thankfully said nothing about how _much _he ate, clearly chalking it up to his homelessness – the merc had shooed him off to the bathroom to take a shower, "because it's not like there's much else to do 'round here, Petey-Pie, and you may as well relax after being chased down by an entire platoon of Hydra fucks." Peter thought it might have been more because he smelled, and Deadpool must have smelled it and decided to get rid of it before Peter sat on any kind of furniture – which, Peter couldn't blame him, because it had been too long to remember when he had last showered, with _soap_.

Peter wasn't sure how long he had been in there, enjoying the _sinful _water pressure beating heat down on his tired shoulders, but he assumed that the merc must have an endless hot water heater, because it never began to cool. It was a bit strange to use the shampoo and soap in the shower, knowing that it was _Deadpool's_, but it smelled nice and familiar and Peter enjoyed the squeaky feeling on his skin that told him he was _clean _after scrubbing over his entire body no less than six times.

When he'd gotten out, Deadpool had somehow without his knowing it left a long-sleeved t-shirt and a pair of loose sweatpants on the toilet seat for him to get dressed in. As he was so much smaller than Deadpool, they pooled around him like he was a child, but he was able to tighten the drawstring enough that they weren't in imminent danger of dropping to the ground. His other clothes were left untouched next to the toilet, and he spared a moment to thank his past self that he had shoved his Spidey suit in his backpack rather than leaving them with the rest of the clothes where Deadpool would have surely recognized the familiar red and blue pattern, even without looking through the clothes.

Peter had reappeared in the communal living space soon after, following the sound of the TV to where Deadpool was sitting on the couch, feet kicked back to rest on the coffee table in front of him. He somehow hadn't expected Deadpool's flirting this time, and he felt his face grow warm as the merc looked him up and down with a delighted smile.

"Aw, he blushed!" Deadpool cooed, and as Peter was the only one there, he assumed the man was talking to the voices in his head – White and Yellow. What had the guy called them before? Squares? _Boxes_, that's right. It didn't make sense, but most things about him didn't, so Peter had always shrugged it off with his usual aplomb.

He went easily over to the couch, dropping his bag on the ground and sitting next to the masked man, who had covered his mouth again as soon as he'd been done eating. Deadpool blinked at him, seeming surprised, and Peter suddenly remembered that to Deadpool, they were perfect strangers, and Peter was casually at ease around him and that must of thrown him off.

"I've got Netflix, Hulu, and Amazon Prime, Petey," Deadpool proclaimed, picking up the remote. "You got any suggestions or preferences?"

It had been so long since Peter had watched TV that he suddenly couldn't remember what he used to enjoy, when he'd had an actual _home_. Blinking dumbly at the screen as Deadpool scrolled through suggestions on Netflix, everything just seemed to be a blur of colors and faces he didn't recognize, and he suddenly began to feel very overwhelmed.

Here he was, sitting next to _Deadpool_, wearing Deadpool's clothes and eating Deadpool's food, about to watch Deadpool's TV with Deadpool himself. His face was completely bare and exposed, and his Spidey suit was stuffed away in his backpack and the older man was wearing his full Deadpool regalia and weapons were apparent around the entire living space and it was all being treated like it was _normal_.

It _wasn't _normal. James was in danger and on the run because of Peter, and Peter was fairly used to endangering Deadpool with his very presence, but now he was taking it even further with the intent to _sleep _here. He was going to curse the man with the curse that _he _had, and he couldn't even stop it because he didn't have a voice and he couldn't reveal his identity because that would endanger him even _more_.

He should just leave. He should leave Deadpool and James and Steve entirely, and close himself off from _everyone _because whether he looked like Peter or Spiderman, people always died around him and the only thing he could do to stop it would be to just have _no one _close to him.

This wasn't normal – it never _could _be, not with him. He was _never_ going to have a normal life and he needed to get used to that fact already, because even Deadpool, the man who couldn't die, would never be able to change that.

He hadn't been able to save Uncle Ben, when he'd been shot right in front of him.

He hadn't been able to save Captain Stacey, when he'd fought Dr. Connors what seemed like a lifetime ago and yet seemed like yesterday every time he closed his eyes.

He hadn't been able to save Gwen, when she'd been pushed down the clock tower. Just seconds too late – he hadn't been quick enough.

He hadn't been able to save Aunt May, when the lung cancer had attacked so viciously quickly, and she had just three months after finding out she was sick before her funeral.

No, he hadn't been the cause of all of these, he could recognize that. But _he _had been. Some kind of curse, just on him, had systematically taken away everyone he cared about from around him. And he would never be able to get rid of it or escape from it, so it really wasn't fair to anyone else to be around them for long enough that he began to care about them.

Not when, in his first and last foster home, he had just begun to love Gianna, the little four-year-old biological daughter of his new foster parents, and she had been struck down by a drunk taxi driver when he'd been on the other side of the city dealing with another mugging. He hadn't stayed for the funeral – he didn't want his curse to spread to her parents. He'd grabbed his measly hundred dollars he'd collected from May's house and decided to live on his own in the streets, where no one paid another homeless kid any mind and they were therefore kept safer.

And now, Deadpool visited him often, made sure he was alright after battles, had given him a gift, and he had invited him into his home and given him food and clothes and a shower and wanted to watch TV with him and even knew his _name _and Peter came to the sudden realization that he'd been a complete _idiot_ because _of course _they were considered friends by now. There was nothing else to cross off the list to qualify them as such, and Peter was endangering him by continuing to sit here and allow the man to protect him from Hydra and he was such a selfish _bastard_.

"…starting to scare me, Petey, come on," Deadpool's voice broke through the shrill panic in his mind, and Peter became aware that leather-clad hands were lightly grasping his knees, trying to get his attention. His eyes darted upward, and Deadpool looked about as concerned as he possibly _could_ with a mask covering his face.

"Hey, there you are," Deadpool said, sounding relieved, but like he was trying to hide it through nonchalance. "Still need to work on evening out your breathing, though – you're looking kinda blue in the lips there…"

_Deadpool_, Peter mouthed, because of course his voice was as silent as always. Deadpool could apparently read lips though, because he nodded.

"Yup, that's me!" he cheerfully confirmed. "You can call me Wade, though, if you start breathing normal again. Although proven impossible time and time again, Matty would do his best to kill me if anything happened to you while you hang out here."

Wade. Peter vaguely remembered Daredevil calling Deadpool that. It was certainly easier to use a name with one syllable, but _holy shit _that meant that they were even closer to being friends than Peter had thought, because now Deadpool had given him his _name_ and…

"Hey, hey, none of that!" Wade insisted, his voice sounding farther away as black spots danced in Peter's vision. "Come on, you were just doing better! Shit, I don't know how to deal with this. When _I _start freaking out like this I just shoot myself in the head – quiets things down by the time I wake up again. No, White, we _cannot _shoot this little McNugget in the head – he won't come back like we will! That's the whole point of…no, you know what, fuck you. I'm not listening to you anymore – you're in time-out.

"Peter!" Wade directed back at Peter, trying to get his attention, but Peter was already looking at him, feeling more grounded just as Deadpool continued to ramble like he usually did. It was – familiar. And he should panic at that, that Deadpool's habits were familiar enough by now that they were calming, but he was tired and he didn't want to think about scary thoughts like that anymore so he pushed it away and just focused on breathing normally again.

"Hey, you're doing better!" Wade sounded surprised and delighted. "Whatever you're doing to make things better, keep doing it!"

Wade's hands were still on his knees, the touch grounding and comforting, though Wade didn't even seem aware of that by now. He kept rambling on about this or that, and Peter's eyes wandered down from Deadpool's mask, down the broad expanse of his shoulders that must be at least two and a half times as wide as Peter's, down the muscled arms and to the large black-clad hands on top of his bony knees. With anyone else, touching him during a panic attack would have freaked him out even more, made him feel like he was held down and trapped. With Wade though, he felt…okay. He didn't feel like the hands on his knees and the masked face so close to his own was constricting. It was just…a simple weight that kept him grounded.

He knew he needed to get out of here. Finding comfort in Deadpool was…_not _okay. He would only bring the other man pain by staying here, around him and in his living space – not to mention that every moment he spent in the presence of the mercenary ran the risk of his identity as Spiderman being discovered. Thankfully he was wearing long sleeves that the merc had provided for him which served to cover up the irritated skin around his spinnerets, but he couldn't get too comfortable. His sleeve could slip, or Wade could decide to look in his backpack after all and see the familiar red and blue fabric, or he may even just connect how out of the ordinary it is for him to know _two _mute people with his basic build.

He patted Wade's gloved hand to signal that he was okay now, that he could stop his rambling that was trying to bring his mind back to the present. He rested the side of his head on his hands, miming the desire to go to sleep.

"Of course, Petey-patootie," Wade said immediately, before he stopped and looked at Peter more closely, suddenly suspicious. "What are you up to? Are you going to pull something? Because you have this look on your face that does not scream of your normal innocence. You better not do anything to the bed. I haven't gotten rid of the glitter from _last_ time someone tried to pull something."

Peter shook his head, schooling his face in an attempt to look more innocent, merely exhausted. He stared at Deadpool with pleading eyes, hoping that he would take pity on the 'poor little homeless orphan' persona and let him be alone in a room, ostensibly to catch some sleep.

"Alright, _alright_," Wade said, sounding like he was trying to be irritated but not quite making it. "Put away those soulful eyes, Bambi. The bed's down the hall, past the bathroom, door on the left at the end. It's clean, promise."

Peter gave Wade a grateful look before rising to his feet, slinging his backpack onto his shoulder and heading off toward the room, as per Wade's directions.

"Sweet dreams, Petey-pie!" Wade cooed behind him, and Peter gave a vague wave of acknowledgement before he opened the door and stepped into the room, closing the door with a soft _snick _behind him.

The room was as clean as the rest of the house, and Peter thought to himself that he needed to stop being surprised by this – he clearly didn't know Deadpool as well as he thought he did. That was okay, though. He wasn't going to get any closer to him than he was now – not in either of his identities.

He grabbed a couple of extra blankets from the closet, bunching them up on the bed in the form of a person like everyone ever did in the movies when someone was sneaking out. Flicking the light off, he discovered that the curtains were blackout curtains and found himself grateful for it.

Slinging his backpack onto his back, both arms through the straps, he opened the window, eternally grateful that it opened silently and that there was a fire escape right outside. When Deadpool discovered his absence, he would assume he had gone by fire escape, rather than across the high rooftops above them.

Creeping out with his usual sneakiness that came naturally due to his powers, he slowly and carefully closed the window behind him. He paused there, hands and feet stuck to the brick wall outside, listening for any sign that he was caught or that the masked mercenary was checking on him due to any kind of noise he might have made.

He heard nothing though, and he breathed out slowly in a sigh of relief. Glancing up and down the street (well, really from side to side, because he was already above the street, but semantics), he didn't see anyone out who might notice him. Too many people were attached to their phones, not bothering to look up at the usual boring apartment buildings around them.

He figured it safe then to climb up to the roof on sticky limbs, moving quickly in case someone _did _happen to look up and see a random teenager making the climb without a ladder.

Once on top of the roof, he made quick work of undressing and pulling his Spiderman suit back on, shoving the clothes Deadpool had given him in the backpack because he didn't think the merc would care that they were gone or would find them if he left them on the roof for the pigeons to shit on.

Once in the suit, he felt secure enough to allow himself to be a bit more obvious, not even attempting to remain hidden as he travelled several stories above the rest of the New Yorkers down below on the street. Without pause, he jumped quickly across to the next roof over, and in minutes, he was gone from the area entirely.

* * *

"Petey?" Wade called, shuffling over to the bedroom door. The kid had been sleeping for several hours now, and Wade figured he might like to wake up for dinner before passing out for the rest of the night. Wade truly didn't mind the kid using his bed – he certainly needed it a lot more than Wade did.

Plus, he was a bit worried for the teenager – not just because he was homeless, though that was certainly a large part of it – but because there was such a lost look in Peter's eyes, a kind of hopelessness and distance there that Wade was very familiar with feeling and he was maybe a little bit worried that he would hurt himself if left alone too long with so much stuff around him. Sure, he'd been alone for a while now, by the looks of things, but you never knew when someone was just going to give up.

Wade was very familiar with _that_, too.

So he figured he'd have dinner with the kid, have some more one-sided conversation, and maybe get the teenager to smile before he went off back to bed for the night.

He didn't hear anything inside the room – no movement or snoring, so he rapped lightly on the door with two of his knuckles.

"Petey, whatcha want for dinner?" he called through the door. "I'm gonna order in."

There was no response, which was expected, but there was no sound of movement either, and it made Wade a bit concerned because it wasn't like these doors were _thick_. He should've heard _something_.

He cracked open the door, seeing the room completely cloaked in darkness, only the light from the hallway shining a light right next to the bed, leaving the bed itself still in shadow. He saw a lump on the bed, not moving.

Actually, now that he'd noticed, that lump wasn't moving at _all_, not even breathing, and Wade rushed in, alarms going off in his head, every terrible possibility going through his head in a second as he reached out to shake the thin form under the blankets –

And felt only blankets. Blinking, he pulled the top blanket back and found three of the blankets that had been folded in the closet now folded in such a way that it mimicked the form of a person.

**You fucking idiot, this is the oldest trick in the book! **Yellow laughed mockingly in his head. **And you completely fell for it! **Wade groaned and bent his head down.

"Peter, you little _shit_," he said out loud, looking at the window and remembering the fire escape right outside. Peter must have been used to being silent in his movements, because Wade hadn't heard any hint of the squeaky fire escape in the past several hours.

_You've gotta find him! _White said shrilly. _Do you want a Winter Soldier mad at you for the rest of your life?! Then we'll **never **meet Captain America!_

"Shit, you're right," Wade said with a frown. "I wanna meet Cap! We're gonna be best friends! After Spidey, of course."

**Damn straight, **Yellow scolded. **Now get your ass out there and find Peter before Matty comes back for him!**

Deadpool ran immediately for his weapons. It couldn't be too hard to find a homeless teenager in New York City, could it?

* * *

Bucky sat in his room, on his bed with the covers still pulled up from the last time he'd been there. The rest of the Avengers had finished up their mission after they had been informed that Daredevil had taken Bucky to a safe house the day before. Originally they were going to split, with one side dealing with the original tornado in Nebraska while the other half would come back to New York, depending on their very presence to keep Hydra back. In retrospect, it probably would have worked, if it had come to that. They had just decided that Steve, Tony, and Sam would return to New York, leaving Natasha, Clint, and Bruce to figure out the portal-opening tornado, when Bucky had been able to give them a call again and explain that he already had backup, that it was too risky to split the team in what sounded like a serious problem.

Of course, they figured out when they got there that the tornado had been greatly exaggerated in its effects on the surrounding area, and they had been able to locate the mad scientist who had caused the trouble in under an hour, forcing him to shut down the man-made disaster and confiscate the equipment and notes to be kept under safer care.

Daredevil had kept to his word and quickly led Bucky to a safe location, an empty warehouse along the Hudson that Bucky might have chosen himself. He was further impressed when inside he discovered that it was temperature and humidity controlled, so that while there was no furniture to speak of, they were still fairly comfortable as they waited out when the rest of the Avengers could return and Bucky had more backup in the face of Hydra.

He'd slept in worse places, after all, and this warehouse was practically a palace compared to some places – like a particular hut he'd bunkered down in for a week in Petropavlovsk-Kamca, undoubtedly the wettest place in Russia.

And Steve was apparently somewhat familiar with Daredevil, because while he still sounded like he was ready to gear up and come running back on _foot_ if he had to, Bucky knew that that was Preset One for Steve Rogers. He knew by the tone that he was okay with Daredevil – he was just nervous about being away from Bucky at this apparent danger to his wellbeing and continued freedom. Bucky privately thought that Steve needed to see a therapist just as much as he did for his PTSD and attachment and abandonment issues, but he had yet to voice the thought to Steve. His words still had a hard time coming out from his throat, trapped by his own vocal chords too often to feel comfortable sharing these thoughts with Steve at the point he was at. Later.

Anyway, he'd been too distracted with the whole Hydra issue and Daredevil to really think about that much when he was on the phone with Steve. He'd been on the phone for just long enough to relay pertinent information and assure Steve that he was fine and Peter was in a separate safe house too before he had to hang up the phone to keep running.

He'd spent the rest of the night with Daredevil, who never removed his mask or gave him a name other than "Daredevil". It had been quiet, but where Bucky was tense and pondering the past several hours and running through it all over again in his head, Daredevil appeared perfectly calm and okay with the silence between them punctuated by the occasional inane comment.

So Bucky was left in peace, leaning against a far wall with knees pulled up and forearms resting across his knees while he thought. Without the rush of adrenaline keeping him going, he could pick apart his experience second by second and evaluate what had gone wrong, what had gone right, and what was strange.

And as much as he tried not to think it, the strangest part of that whole experience was _Peter_.

He hadn't noticed it at the time, but upon reflection, he remembered how Peter had awakened _before _the strange not-bullets had been shot their direction. He'd at first assumed that it must have been a nightmare that had awakened the teen, but now he recalled how Peter had looked around with fear, like he was looking for something that had scared him, and then he'd pulled Bucky down, out of the way of the strange bullets. It was like Peter had instinctively known where the bullet was going to hit, without even knowing where it was coming from.

And then, throughout the chase, Peter hadn't looked like the shooting was strange. And sure, Peter was homeless and definitely used to random acts of violence because of that, but guns were a completely different matter entirely. Peter _should _have looked surprised, at least. And he had definitely looked scared, alarmed, but not like he didn't know what to do. It was much the way Bucky himself had reacted – but _he _was the former Winter Soldier. He was used to this.

And then, when they'd been cornered by the dozen Hydra agents, Peter hadn't backed away or continued trying to run. No, he had stayed and fought – and fought like he knew what he was doing.

Bucky replayed that fight in particular in his mind, forcing himself to remember every single second. He pushed past the multiple images of the Hydra symbol emblazoned on the uniforms – now that they were exposed to the world, Hydra had a tendency now to display their symbol proudly. Fear tactic, Bucky recognized distantly, slowing down his memory as he caught glimpses of Peter's fighting. Something about it was very familiar in the same way he felt like things were on the tip of his tongue when he tried remembering his time during or before the Winter Soldier, but he was positive that the kid wasn't Hydra. He was too…kind. Innocent. But how else did Bucky recognize that movement, the way that it itched somewhere in his mind?

Then suddenly, in the images of his mind he saw Peter look up briefly at the wall of the building near to him, like he was debating climbing up, even though the fire escape was much farther away. And he recalled abruptly a day he'd spent inside the Tower, surfing through YouTube to catch up with some of the modern world. He'd been awake since three in the morning, watching Weird History videos and conspiracy theories and random funny short clips called "vines", when Steve had returned from breakfast. He'd seen him surfing through YouTube and recommended a few videos before asking him his opinion on Spiderman. Bucky hadn't had any idea who "Spiderman" was, thinking it must be a man who looked like a spider and wondering what the twenty-first century had come to that a creature like this hadn't come up in his _hours _on the internet, but Steve explained briefly that it was another superpowered vigilante based in New York.

Bucky had spent the next couple of hours exploring Spiderman, watching brief blurry clips taken on phones of the vigilante swinging about in a skin-tight red and blue suit, a few of him joking with the villains he was webbing up, even one funny one that had been overlaid with someone else's voice filling in snarky comments with cartoonish drawings of the villains, the other Avengers, and even the President of the United States at one point. That one looked like a whole channel dedicated to these types of videos. He watched a couple of videos theorizing reasons for some of the changes Spiderman had gone through in the past several months, but after one theory about the reason for his muteness being that the real Spiderman had been killed and replaced by an alien who didn't know their language, Bucky decided that the conspiracy theories in Spiderman's respect were of no use to him figuring out who this guy was.

That had been the only time he'd looked up Spiderman, having more things to catch up on, but he still remembered all of the information he had accumulated in that couple of hours, and he found himself drawing to a startling conclusion.

Spiderman was mute. So was Peter. Spiderman could make insanely acrobatic moves that even Natasha had a hard time with, and while he hadn't seen _extreme_ moves like that from Peter in the fight with the Hydra agents, he could see subtle signs that meant Peter was probably _capable _of that type of contortion. Spiderman had also not been using his webs in all these months, and Bucky figured that the kid didn't have whatever income he'd had before to make them now. Peter also ate a startling amount of food, and where before Bucky had attributed it to him being homeless and starving, he realized suddenly that Peter never quite looked full or done when the food was gone that he brought. Spiderman – _Peter _– probably had the same or very similar high metabolism as Steve and Bucky did. And his sensing the danger before it had hit? That could very easily be another one of Spiderman's powers.

_Holy shit_, Bucky thought when it all added up in his head to paint a very clear picture. _Peter is Spiderman._

He kept these thoughts to himself all throughout the time he spent with Daredevil in the warehouse. He dozed a bit, but didn't ever truly go to sleep, continuing to review his thoughts and attempting to find some flaws in his theory. But it still all made sense, no matter which way he turned it.

And then he remembered Daredevil, how the man had seemed very familiar with the kid. Not enough that Peter seemed to notice, but with Bucky's own thoughts and theories running rampant, he thought that Daredevil probably knew who Peter was, too. He hadn't known his name – no, Bucky remembered giving it when they had made a pit stop at Deadpool's apartment – but somehow, the other red-clad vigilante knew who Spiderman was. Bucky was almost sure of it.

In the morning, when Steve had shown up with an earnestly protective expression and a giant bear hug, Bucky didn't voice these ideas to him. Steve and Daredevil exchanged pleasantries, Steve effusive with his thanks where Bucky didn't know how to be, and then Steve and Bucky were on their way back to the Tower in the armored Stark car that Tony had sent along to pick him up.

He had been upset to get the call from Deadpool – apparently hours after Peter had gone missing through the window of the apartment. Deadpool had been searching all night, and promised to keep looking, babbled something about Captain America, and before Bucky could tell Deadpool to leave it alone, the mercenary had hung up. Bucky didn't worry too much about it, knowing that Peter-Spidey could deal with himself and knew how to hide by this point. If he didn't want Deadpool to find him, he wouldn't.

Now, Bucky sat in his bedroom, reviewing what he knew about Peter once again. He went through some more YouTube videos with the vigilante, and Bucky now couldn't help but see Peter in the red and blue suit, and the big buggy black eyes that took up half his face. The videos only convinced him further of his theory, unable to be colored with the shadow of memories that weren't always very reliable.

Before he had come to this conclusion about Spiderman, when he had thought that it was just Peter he had endangered, Bucky had been filled with self-loathing at endangering the poor boy with his very presence. As they had run, he had already mentally been making plans to stay away from him, in the hopes that Hydra hadn't recognized him and could leave him alone. Bucky refused to get Peter caught in the crossfire as Hydra attempted to get their Fist back, and had every intention of staying away from the homeless boy forever, watching only from afar to keep him safe.

Now though, knowing that he was Spiderman…firstly, could he really be _100%_ positive that Hydra hadn't somehow discovered Spiderman's identity and was after _him_, too? Secondly, Bucky had no delusions that even Spiderman could hold his own against a couple dozen Hydra agents coming after him – Bucky himself would struggle with that, if he was caught off guard. But still, Spiderman could take better care of himself than just a homeless teenager in New York City.

No, Peter didn't need Bucky staying away from him for his safety. He was already unsafe – there were no take-backs for Spiderman now. He'd made too many enemies already. What Peter needed now was _backup_. Peter could take care of himself in any normal situation, but against several enemies? He needed people in his corner.

And Bucky mentally but firmly placed himself in that corner, what he was certain was the first of many people that would eventually go over there.

He wasn't going to reveal Peter's secret to anyone else – not even Steve. That was Peter's right to decide who he wanted to know something like that. But he sure as hell wasn't going to just sit here, while Peter was out God knew where. He wasn't sure exactly why Peter had run before it was cleared as safe, but he could make a few guesses, considering that it was where Bucky's head had gone before he had figured out who Peter was.

He got up, sending a quick text to Steve that he was going for a walk and getting on the elevator before Steve had the chance to insist on coming along, paranoid that after the attack Hydra was lying in wait in every corner. He had his tracker in his arm in case of emergency, and knew that Steve would be watching the dot on his phone the entire time he was gone. But for now, Bucky had another boy to be worrying about.

Previously, Bucky had been grateful that Peter had been so oblivious as to not figure out who he used to be. Now though, he was pretty sure that Peter had run, fearing for plain old James' continued wellbeing, having no reason to think that Hydra might be after _him_. Peter was probably pretty confused and scared right now, trying to figure out what Hydra wanted with him.

And so, with this in mind, he decided it was about time he came clean with Peter, too. After all, he had figured out Peter's dual identity. It was just polite at this point to make sure that Bucky had no more secrets, either.

He hoped quietly to himself that Peter would take it well, and didn't run away screaming.


	8. Chapter 8

When Bucky stepped off the elevator into the communal area, a certain billionaire was immediately standing in front of him.

"Winnie the Pooh Bear!" Tony proclaimed, arms stretched expansively, almost like he was prepared for a hug, but not quite. Bucky wouldn't have given him one anyway, and not just because he was leery of touch from anyone but Steve. But while Tony was a tactile person, very casual about slinging an arm about any shoulder near him and leaning against the closest person when they were all gathered together, he wasn't one for hugs. Tony offering a hug must mean that he was planning something he thought was hilarious but that no one else probably did.

He was pretty sure this time that he understood the nickname Tony had bestowed on him, but upon immediately deciding it was stupid, he decided to ignore it.

"What do you want?" Bucky said warily, trying to sidestep the other brunette, but Tony only mirrored the movement, remaining annoyingly in the way.

"Okay, so I'm mostly checking on you," Tony admitted, getting straight to the point when faced with Bucky's glare. "You called us with Hydra shooting at you, and ever since coming back you've been disappearing from the Tower all day, but we're not getting reports about anyone finding a pile of dead Hydra fucks. So what the hell are you doing? Are you still all Bucky Barnes, or are you gathering information?"

"Tony," Steve's familiar voice of disapproval sounded just before he appeared from around the corner to the kitchen. He folded his arms, looking at Tony, who looked entirely too unrepentant in the face of Steve Rogers' Disapproval™.

"I told you that _I _would talk with him," Steve went on, frowning impressively.

"I'm fine," Bucky cut in before anything could devolve into an argument. Tony looked just stubborn enough that it was a very real possibility, and Bucky didn't feel like dealing with that headache today. "I've been looking for Peter, to make sure he's okay."

Steve's face immediately softened at the answer, but before he could say anything, Tony jumped in, "Peter? Is that the homeless kid you dropped off with _Deadpool_, of all people?"

"Do you think Deadpool did anything?" Steve asked curiously.

Bucky shook his head negatively. "No, he's still looking for him, too. I just haven't seen him, even at his usual bench, and I want to make sure he's alright after everything."

"Do you realize that I can hack into every single camera in the city?" Tony said exasperatedly, throwing his hands up. "I can find the kid in an hour – you should've asked."

"No, that's okay," Bucky said quickly. He didn't want Tony to accidentally discover Peter's identity if he went searching and happened to find him changing, or something. Steve was eyeing him with an expression that was much too familiar in its shrewdness, but for the moment Bucky ignored it and said, "I have another idea where I might find him. If I don't find him tomorrow, I'll let you know."

Tony let out a reluctant, deep and clearly exaggerated sigh. "_Fine_," he stressed, turning to go back to the kitchen. "But I'll hold you to that, Guyliner, don't think I won't."

He disappeared around the corner, and Steve raised an eyebrow at Bucky. "What're you up to?" he questioned curiously.

Bucky shrugged. "Just want the kid to be safe, Stevie," he said honestly. Then he suddenly thought of something he couldn't _believe_ he hadn't realized sooner. "We still have that empty room on our floor, right?"

Steve's eyebrow relaxed back into line with the other as he came to a sudden realization at what Bucky was thinking. "Yeah, it's still empty," he confirmed. "And I'm sure Tony will be fine with it."

Bucky nodded decisively. "Good," he said passively, before moving past Steve to follow Tony's path to the kitchen. "Now come on, punk. I've been imagining Sam's chili and cornbread all day."

* * *

Peter didn't go back to the bench – it was way too dangerous now. He didn't know how Hydra had figured out who he was – if they indeed had – or why they had attacked the way they had. But it wasn't safe to be out in the open anymore, and not with anyone else.

He felt sick at how he had endangered James. He was glad that Steve hadn't been there, had left sometime while he'd been sleeping. Otherwise _two _would have been caught in the crossfire of his curse.

He was sad that he wouldn't see James again, but he pushed the feeling away. They weren't _friends_. They couldn't be. Not now, not ever. Not if he wanted him to keep being okay and without any extra holes caused by bullets pointed his way.

He stayed in the same warehouse that he'd found safety in too many times to count, one that had been abandoned and boarded up from the outside. The only way through was a hole in the roof that allowed the elements through, causing the inside to be not exactly clean, and allowing the stench of the Hudson to permeate the area, but most of the time it was dry, and that's as much as Peter could realistically hope for in his situation.

Going out as Spiderman, he avoided Deadpool as much as he could, and when he couldn't he kept the visit as brief as possible without being outright rude before swinging away. He thought Deadpool might have noticed, but seemed a bit preoccupied as it was that he didn't say anything about the avoidance. Peter felt guilty, thinking that the merc must be looking for Peter still, but not guilty enough to stay longer in the man's presence. He was more aware than ever of his double identity, and was terrified that Deadpool would figure it out if he prolonged his exposure to the man.

So he hunkered down, and kept to himself.

Six days after making his escape from Deadpool's apartment, Peter was wandering about the city, not really with any direction but feeling on edge in a way that meant he needed to move. Not like he wasn't tired, but like he was restless. It was a dichotomy that made Peter grit his teeth and just accept the need to wander about.

He found himself in front of a coffee shop that seemed familiar to him. Staring up at the sign above the door, the name didn't ring any bells, but he was certain he'd been here before. He ignored the mutterings of New Yorkers around him as they grumbled at the homeless kid standing in the middle of the sidewalk, only focused on searching his memories for why this spot seemed so familiar.

With a flash of insight, he suddenly remembered the day he had found James in the middle of a panic attack, and he had brought him to this shop and shared a bunch of desserts with him, courtesy of the kind cashier.

He turned away from the shop as soon as he realized this. He didn't have any money, anyway. There was no point in going inside.

He had taken no more than two steps down the sidewalk when a familiar voice calling his name made him stop, made his heart race with nervousness.

"Peter?"

* * *

Bucky was surprised as well as pleased at finally spotting a familiar figure standing in front of the coffee shop he'd first sat down with the kid at several weeks previous. He had come back to this same coffee shop every day, not having many places that he could really try, considering that he'd been with Peter in any capacity that they could speak in this place and at that park bench. It was good timing that they were finally here at the same time, though based on the expression on Peter's face, the boy appeared to have come here without realizing it.

Bucky hurried forward, trying to catch the boy before he escaped, and came within speaking distance as the kid was turning to walk away.

He swallowed, suddenly nervous anew at what Peter's reaction to him might be upon discovering his previous identity. But he shoved that aside in favor of making sure that _Peter_ was okay – he could worry about himself later.

"Peter?" he called, though it came out sounding more like a question rather than the call he had meant it to be. The New Yorkers around them ignored them as usual, and Bucky watched as Peter turned around with equal parts confusion and trepidation showing on his face, even as Bucky drew closer.

Bucky stopped when he was a couple of feet away, suddenly uncertain what to say. He gestured to the coffee shop just next to them.

"You wanna get something to warm up?" he said awkwardly. "Some food?"

Peter looked like he wanted to say yes, but a larger part of him was going to say no. Bucky shook his head, remembering his realization about what Peter must have been thinking in regards to himself.

"I wanted to – talk," Bucky said stiltedly. "You don't have to, but – I wanted to tell you some things."

Peter looked cautious, but the vaguely defensive stance that Bucky had distantly noted he'd fallen into relaxed and he gave a hesitant nod of agreement.

Bucky waved Peter on, holding the door open for him before following him inside and going to the counter.

A familiar-looking girl was at the counter, and even as Bucky's eyes glanced over the tag that said "Jada", he remembered her as the same girl that had brought them their food last time. She gave them a friendly smile as they approached.

"Hey!" she greeted, recognizing them. "Come back for more chocolate?"

Bucky nodded, and ordered a hot chocolate for them both, a couple of grilled sandwiches called "paninis" that looked pretty tasty, and several different kinds of bread that he privately thought were more like cake without frosting than any form of bread, but were still undeniably delicious.

Jada promised to bring it over to them when it was ready, and Bucky went with Peter to sit at a table in the corner with clear sightlines around the small café. Peter sat hunched in on himself, his expression slightly pained, eyes darting around like he didn't want to meet Bucky's gaze.

Bucky kept quiet until the food arrived, reviewing mentally what to say and how to start, and quietly thanked the dark-skinned girl when she set a few plates down in front of them.

Finally, as they were tucking into their food, Bucky cleared his throat nervously and began, "Peter, I…I'm sorry for pulling you into that shit with – with Hydra. You wouldn't have been near that if I wasn't there."

Peter looked confused at this, and knowing what he did, Bucky supposed that his words made no sense to the boy who would take all the guilt and blame on his own shoulders without even knowing why.

He pulled his hand from the pocket of his hoodie and set it on the table, clear to Peter's eyes. Usually he wore a sleeve that Tony had made that made it appear perfectly like his other arm, because the metal was very distinctive and showed to everyone who he was, that he wasn't like the rest of them. He'd left it off for the last few days though, figuring it would be a good way to tell Peter who he was, who he used to be, when the words inevitably closed up in his throat when faced with the teenager.

He watched carefully as the emotions and thoughts flickered across Peter's face, ready to make his retreat in a moment if and when Peter showed disgust or fear or something of the like.

But amazingly, the expression Peter finally settled on was…_relief_.

Relief? Was that right? Bucky wondered doubtfully to himself. How could someone be _relieved _to be sitting across the table from a murderer? Let alone someone as sweet and innocent as Peter?

He was pulled out of his thoughts of self-loathing when Peter pointed at him before curling his fingers to form a gun, gesturing vaguely behind him and looking at him questioningly.

Bucky got what he was asking immediately and nodded once. "Yeah," he confirmed. "Hydra was after me – you were just in their way. You're still safe – they don't know who you are."

Peter looked thoughtful, before he suddenly froze and looked at Bucky like a deer caught in the headlights. Bucky didn't know why he had that expression, worst case scenarios flashing through his head, until Peter gestured to himself, gazing at Bucky with trepidation, and, _now_, a bit of fear.

Bucky cursed mentally to himself. In his being caught up with his own past identity, he hadn't meant to reveal that he knew Peter's own current identity like that. He had meant to ease into that one even more than he had in revealing who _he _was, because, as was confirmed now by the look on Peter's face, Peter was more concerned about keeping his own identity secret than figuring out the truth of anyone else's.

"Yeah – I…I figured it out," Bucky said, scratching his ear nervously. At Peter's look of panic, Bucky jumped to reassure him, "I didn't tell anyone! Not even Steve. That's your secret to tell, promise. Anyone else who might know figured it out on their own. I don't know for sure of anyone else who's figured it out though, don't worry."

Peter squinted at him in trepidation for a long moment before his frame relaxed and he looked reluctantly accepting while still relieved. He brought the tips of his fingers to his chin, pulling them away in an arc, and Bucky recognized the thanks straight away.

"Of course," Bucky said immediately, before he hesitated. This conversation had come in three parts, and he was past the first two, but the third promised to be just as hard as the others, and Bucky didn't know how to begin this one any more than he had the first two.

Peter unknowingly prolonged it a couple of minutes longer though when he suddenly perked up, eyes lit with realization. He jerked his thumb behind him at nothing Bucky could discern, before puffing his chest up and putting his arm in front of him at an angle, like he was holding a shield before him. His face was set in such a familiar scowl that Bucky wanted to laugh at how much he looked like Steve in that moment.

"Yeah," Bucky said, containing his laugh to a small smile. "Steve is also Captain America. Uh, which means we're not really brothers. But we kinda act like it."

Peter looked pleased with his deduction, taking a large bite of his panini. He suddenly looked so much younger, a weight lifted off his shoulders at the proof that Bucky was okay, that he could keep himself safe, and that Bucky knew his Spiderman secret and promised to keep it. The look only firmed his resolve to make sure they got through the third part of this conversation.

"There's something else I wanted to ask you about," Bucky said a bit later, after letting Peter finish his panini and as he began to pick through the breads. Peter looked trustingly up at him, although there was still a nervousness in his eye that Bucky could relate to.

"I wanted – well, there's – you…" Shit, this was hard. He didn't want Peter to get the wrong idea, but he couldn't let him continue on as he had been doing. He blew out a breath and started over.

"I live in the Tower," he finally said. "I share a floor with Steve. I have a room, and he has his room and his little art studio in one of the other rooms. There's another room – we don't do anything with it. And I think – well, you'd be safe if you…"

Bucky trailed off, but Peter looked like he understood anyway, and his eyes had gone shuttered, face blank in a way that he knew hid the upset inside him. Bucky reviewed his words and said quickly, "I don't mean as charity. And not just because you're Spiderman. But that is part of it. I mean, if you were just Peter then that attack would have been random to you. But you're also Spiderman, and that means that you fight all the time, so you're in danger more. And – I mean – if you lived with us in the Tower, you could have backup, people who can help you out in a pinch. That doesn't mean I think you're helpless – I know you're not. But _I _need backup too, so you could too if you moved in with us. I haven't asked Tony exactly, but he's way more generous than everyone thinks he is – I know he'd be okay with it. But only if you agree, of course. I'm not going to force you. I'll just – worry. A lot."

Bucky was cut off from his uncharacteristic rambling when Peter reached out and patted Bucky's hand, uncertainly, like he wasn't sure the touch would be welcome. Bucky very carefully didn't pull away, though his normal nervousness and aversion to touch was diminished because it was just Peter, and even the most fucked up parts of his brain recognized that.

The expression on Peter's face was nervous, but steady in its resolve in a way that Bucky wouldn't expect to see on someone of his age. Carefully, he shook his head "no", looking regretful before he'd even completed the motion.

If that regret hadn't been there, or hadn't been so obvious, Bucky would have let it go. He knew how hard it was to accept living with someone else – especially _multiple _someone elses – because he had been there months previous, when he had kept his distance from Steve as long as he could to get himself into a better mental state. For a while, he had kept to himself for fear of hurting others just by being around them and being involved with them.

And that regret that Peter tried so very hard to hide? Bucky would bet everything he had that Peter had the same mentality as he had at one point. And Bucky had needed Steve giving him the metaphorical smack upside the head to get him to come with him to move into Avengers Tower with him; he was certain that that was what Peter needed right now as well. He tried channeling as much _Steve _as he could, because his own anxiety was trying to keep him silent and accepting of Peter's decision, and he didn't think Peter needed that right now. No, Peter needed a _home_.

"Peter, how old are you? Fifteen? Sixteen?" Peter nodded slowly at that one, expression uncertain as he didn't know where Bucky was going with this, and Bucky went on, "Sixteen, then. You still have a couple of years before you can get a job without them calling CPS on you. You don't have any sort of base that can keep you safe after your nightly activities, and exposing you to the elements year round is bound to catch up to you and end up with you either sick or dead." A mulish expression crossed Peter's features, and the stubborn tilt to his jaw reminded him so much of Steve it _ached_. Bucky shook his head and continued, "I'm not doubting your abilities, Pete. I know you're fairly self-reliant, and I'm not even saying that's a bad thing. But there's nothing wrong with accepting back-up when you need it."

Peter gestured between them, almost sharply, a daring and questioning look in his expression as he gazed at Bucky with a raised eyebrow.

Somehow, Bucky immediately knew what Peter meant. "Of _course_ I'll still help you if you don't want to move into the Tower," he said with a deep frown at Peter's doubt. "But why should I just bring you food every once in a while when I can give you a bed, too?"

Peter's expression was still scowly and stubborn, and Bucky realized that he wasn't going to get anywhere by channeling his inner Steve. He abruptly switched gears, adopting an almost regretful, melancholy expression.

"Pete, you're my first friend," he admitted, absentmindedly tearing up one of the napkins on the table and seeing Peter pause out the corner of his eye. "Steve was my friend before already, and the other Avengers just kind of happened, and it's not the same. But you proved to me that I didn't have to always stick to one of them to be around people, and make friends of my own. And I really want to make sure you're okay not just as Spiderman but as _Peter_. And this is the only way I know how to do that."

Bucky chanced a glance up at Peter to see what he thought of the confession – true as it was, though slightly manipulative – and saw that he was looking at him wryly.

At that expression, he thought Peter might have seen through his intent and was about to deny him again, but to his great surprise Peter gave a reluctant nod of acceptance.

Bucky brightened immediately, hope filling him at Peter's answer. "Really? You'll really move in with me an' Steve?"

Peter nodded again, and then gave him a very distinct _Look_, tapping his temple with an index finger and pointing at Bucky's face. Bucky understood like he had used actual words to express himself – _I know what you just did, but I'll accept anyway._

Bucky was glad that Peter knew, because it made him feel less guilty about manipulating him, but still agreed to move in, anyway.

"Great – _thank_ you," Bucky expressed genuinely. He glanced at Peter's cup, which was now almost empty. "You want a refill before we go back to the Tower?"

Peter gazed at him for a long moment, and Bucky wondered what the kid was looking for in his face. He seemed to have found it though, because his expression relaxed and he nodded. Bucky's face fell into a relieved smile, and he got up to go and order another cup of hot chocolate for his kid.

Wait – what – _his _kid? No. _The _kid. His friend. That's all.

Yeah.

* * *

Peter felt like his brain was spinning in circles too fast to grab hold of any particular thought. He was stunned at James' identity, and felt like kicking himself for his utter _stupidity _that he hadn't picked up before just who he and Steve were in their off hours. Really, Steve's shoulder to waist ratio was _ridiculous_, and James' wasn't much different. Still, he might have been excused for overlooking that if not for their _names_. Steve and James were normal, but then finding out that James was nicknamed _Bucky_? That was a bright neon sign declaring who they were, and yet Peter had skipped right over it like it was nothing more than a road work sign he saw every day. He had been in the Academic Decathalon in junior high, for goodness' sake. He remembered learning about Captain America and his best pal Bucky Barnes every year in history since grade school – he _knew _their story.

He felt like an utter idiot when he remembered James' – _Bucky's _– lack of panic when running from Hydra agents. He had thought he must have been military, or something of the like – and then he had called Steve – called _Captain America _– for backup, and Peter had thought hardly anything of it. Daredevil had even mentioned Bucky's usual accommodations and his "friends" – clearly the rest of the Avengers. And Peter had been so _blind _to it all.

He'd repeatedly kicked himself mentally for his complete stupidity after Bucky had revealed who he was. And then he'd been pulled from _that _shock with the revelation that Bucky had actually _figured out _who he was. As Spiderman, that is.

That had been terrifying enough that it had pulled him from his thoughts of self-flagellation long enough to freak out about who _else _might know who he was. He worried briefly that James might hold this knowledge over him, but he had kicked that thought to the curb even before Bucky had made his promise that he wouldn't reveal his secret to anyone – not even Steve.

It had been this last detail, that not even Steve would find out from him, that had Peter calming enough to be able to breathe normally again. Because he remembered his history now, and he knew that the friendship between Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes was _legendary_. It was practically a guiding light for how close friendships should be for everyone else – and the fact that Bucky Barnes would keep a secret from his best friend, for _him_, little old Peter Parker? It had ignited something warm in his core and he couldn't help the immediate expression of gratitude to the older man. It was all he could do, and he wished he could do more, but he suddenly realized that there was a peacefulness that overtook him – a weight lifted off his shoulders that he hadn't realized was there until he found out that someone _knew _about him, and _still _wasn't going to tell.

A moment later that peaceful feeling had been swept away again when Bucky had asked him to come and move into the Tower with him, and he found thoughts of doubt and self-recrimination flooding his mind once more. His immediate, instinctive thought had been that Bucky just saw him as a charity case – or better yet, someone he could take on as a project to help him heal. Peter had already been out on the streets when the Winter Soldier files had been leaked, but he had still heard bits and pieces of what the man had gone through. And Peter felt for him, knew that no one should have to go through the things that Bucky Barnes did, but he also refused to be some sort of – foothold, or supportive _pet_ to grab on to when the man was having a bad day.

But Bucky had dismissed those thoughts as well, without Peter even having to voice them. He'd told him something about needing backup, and he was worried for Peter before but now he was more worried because he had _reason_ to be because Peter endangered himself so often as Spiderman. And Peter understood his reasoning – he had heard it before, or echoes _like_ it. He remembered Bucky Barnes having to pull a tiny Steve Rogers out of fights all the time, doing all he could to keep him safe from the beginning, even as kids, and he could see the parallels here.

The difference was that Peter didn't _need_ help. He had been getting by fine on his own for nine months now, and he'd made it through _winter_. Sure, there'd been a few times when he had really hesitated, doubted whether or not he'd make it, but he'd pushed through and made it out the other side alright every time. Eighteen more months was fine – he was a third of the way through to being eighteen already.

And then Bucky had pulled out those damn soulful eyes and that sad expression that Peter _knew _was an act just a couple of seconds in…and yet Peter had sensed the sincerity in the words he spoke. It made something bite and gnaw at the back of his mind to hear Bucky call them "friends"…but he wasn't as panicked about it as he maybe should have been. Bucky was the goddamn Winter Soldier – if he'd made it through seventy years of torture and brainwashing and still made it out the other end (mostly) okay, then whatever Peter's curse threw at him wouldn't even make a dent.

Probably.

But more than the words, Peter suddenly realized that this was more than he'd heard Bucky talk – _ever_. He could see the discomfort in his eyes at using his vocal chords so much, and his voice actually sounded a bit rough from lack of use now. And he knew himself how _impossible _it was some days to actually speak or even make _sounds_; that, more than anything, showed him how much Bucky was serious about this, how much he wanted this. Wanted Peter to be safe.

So, seeing Bucky try, seeing him try every tactic to try and convince him – his sincerity couldn't have been shown in any better way. _This _was a way that Peter understood. _This _was what got through to him and convinced him that maybe, possibly, he could accept what Bucky was trying to give him.

It was too late not to get attached to the guy, Peter convinced himself. He and Bucky had been in a life-or-death situation together and made it out the other end okay. Bucky had spent days hunting him down, just to talk with him and make sure he was okay. Bucky had figured out who he was, and was keeping it a secret not only from everyone else, but from _Steve Rogers_. Bucky had used probably more words than he used in a month to try and convince him to accept his help. And Peter found it impossible to say no by then.

So, after eating the rest of the food on the table and getting yet _another _refill to go for each of them, they made their way out of the cute little coffee shop that Peter had somehow begun to think of as _theirs_ (he would have to squash that idea later, he thought). They had taken a taxi back to the Tower, because it was still a bit chilly to walk at the beginning of April. The taxi driver had given the two of them a doubtful look, and Peter had resisted the urge to shrink back self-consciously at his dirty and ragged – clearly homeless – appearance. Bucky'd given the driver a glare and told him the address to the Tower in a rough voice, and the man had shrugged and began to drive.

Bucky seemed to be through his weekly allowance of words, so the drive was silent as they made their way through the always busy New York streets, but Peter didn't mind. He watched out the window as the buildings passed above him, feeling odd as they moved at a speed he was unused to from this close to the ground. Bucky sat completely still next to him, but when Peter looked over, he only looked mildly stressed, and not like he was panicking.

Bucky paid the driver as he pulled up to the front doors of the Tower, and Peter felt his heart race for a second as he waited for him, looking up at the tall building and the imposing glass doors before him. Even before he'd been homeless, he'd never been in a building this…_opulent_, and now he felt like someone was going to see him and shoo him away like a stray cat.

A hand rested lightly on his shoulder, and Peter jumped a bit, though he hadn't felt his spidey sense buzz at him. He craned his head up to look at Bucky, whose face was mostly flat but still his eyes managed to convey understanding.

"Come on," he said, using the light grip on Peter's shoulder to steer him to the side. "There's a better entrance in the back that can take us straight up without anyone seeing."

Peter wilted with relief, though his heart still beat a fast tattoo of nervousness at the thought of actually stepping _inside _Stark Tower. Was he going to meet the rest of the Avengers now? How much did any of them even know about him? Would they too figure out who he was at night, as Bucky had?

A door Peter wouldn't have noticed if he wasn't looking for it opened out of the marble before him, and they stepped into a dimly lit garage. Bucky silently guided him over to an elevator, which opened without the older man even having to press a button. Peter blinked at it, but got in when Bucky continued, clearly deeming it alright.

"Good evening, Sergeant Barnes, and guest," a cool male voice greeted, causing Peter to jump before he realized it was coming from the speakers.

"Peter," Bucky grunted, and Peter looked at him before he realized that Bucky was telling the voice his name.

"Very well, Master Peter," the voice said, suddenly sounding much warmer, like he knew him. Peter mentally pictured an old English gentleman, sitting at a screen of monitors and smiling at them as the elevator rose. "We have been anticipating your arrival. I am JARVIS, Mr. Stark's artificial intelligence. If you have need of anything while here, you need only ask."

Peter turned wide eyes to Bucky, suddenly realizing a glaring problem. _Artificial intelligence_? That meant a computer that never turned off, that always watched, that would be able to figure out in _moments _that Peter was Spiderman and report it to the rest of the Avengers!

Bucky noticed the look – it would have been practically impossible not to – and patted his shoulder reassuringly.

"Don't worry, kid," he said gruffly. "JARVIS only monitors the main living area of our floor – bathroom and bedrooms are off limits."

"Quite," JARVIS agreed primly. "Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes deemed it invasive and uncomfortable to be monitored in their private areas, though they are by no means the only ones to request it so. Doctor Banner and Mr. Stark are the only ones who elect to leave the monitoring in their bedrooms, for their own personal reasons."

Peter was relieved by this, and felt his posture relax in response.

A moment later, he was startled by a chime that went through the speakers, alerting them to their arrival. Peter's eyes widened; he hadn't noticed its rise, and hadn't expected how quickly it arrived a few dozen floors up.

Before he could even take a breath, nervousness ratcheting through him once again, the doors slid open.


	9. Chapter 9

**Trigger warning in the end notes to avoid spoiling anything**

* * *

Steve was in the living room, directly in front of the elevator. He was turned to the side so that a bit of his profile was visible, but the rest of it was blocked by the newspaper he had completely opened in front of his face. Peter blinked at the sight – who even read paper copies anymore?

Well, old men, he supposed, remembering that Cap was born in 1920 and was by definition an old man, for all he hadn't lived those years conscious or looked like he was older than his early thirties.

"Hey, Buck," Steve called, not lifting his head from the newspaper in front of him. "You find him yet?"

"You could say that," James grunted beside him, and Steve glanced over at the tone, before doing a double-take upon seeing Peter standing there.

"Peter!" he yelped, dropping the paper and jumping to his feet. "Are you okay? We've been so worried about you – Bucky's been looking all over the city for _days_; I'm so glad he found you! Are you staying? You better be staying. Please?"

"Calm down and let the kid breathe, _Jesus_," Bucky said with a long-suffering sigh, walking in further and going to the kitchen. "He's fine, and he's staying. What do you want for lunch?"

Steve looked like he might protest the casualness with which Bucky was handling things, but Peter was glad for how offhanded James was treating his stay here. It made him feel less like a charity case and more like a buddy crashing here for a few days. He went to follow Bucky into the kitchen, hoping it would be clear to Steve that way that he didn't want to deal with questions.

Steve seemed to get it, and after a pause slightly too long to be natural, Steve followed into the kitchen, calling before him, "I think we have stuff for sandwiches."

Bucky nodded wordlessly, and with his back turned to them as he got food out of the fridge, Peter was the only one to see a crease appear between Steve's eyebrows as he gazed at his friend. The blond man was clearly worried about Bucky's silence, which irritated Peter a little bit, because he knew how hard it was to talk sometimes and clearly Bucky had the same issues and Steve needed to just accept that and move on without making that stupid look with his face.

He chided himself a moment later though for where his thoughts had gone, startled with himself at the protectiveness that had roared up inside him. He knew that Steve cared about Bucky – he was his best friend and practical brother; they'd said so themselves. It was just that Steve couldn't understand and relate to Bucky's silence in the same way that Peter did, and Peter couldn't fault him for that or even wish that he _did _understand. He wouldn't wish this…_vocal problem _on anyone, not even for better understanding with the people around him.

Bucky rose from his bent position, tapping the door closed behind him with his foot and then going to lay all the stuff out on the counter.

Steve looked between them, looking lost and unsure of what to say in the face of the two silent brunettes in front of him. Peter approached Bucky, holding out a hand and tilting his head a bit, a wordless offer to help. Bucky grabbed the loaf of bread from off of the fridge, as well as a long Italian loaf. He slid the Italian loaf across the counter over to Peter, a knife quickly following behind it. Peter relaxed slightly, pulling the loaf from the bag and picking up the knife to cut the bread lengthwise for a hoagie sandwich.

"Veggies," Bucky said to Steve shortly, and Steve's expression fell into relief at the direction of what to do, even as he went around them to grab a cutting board and another knife. Bucky moved aside silently to make room for him, pushing over the cucumbers, tomatoes, onion, and peppers to Steve's space. He himself pulled the other bread from its package and began applying liberal amounts of mayo, mustard, cheese, and Italian dressing.

They worked quietly, comfortably, Peter and Bucky switching places so that Peter could put the meat on the sandwiches and Bucky could continue with the spreads. In the end they had nine regular sandwiches and a long Italian hoagie that they divided in three. Peter had to laugh inwardly when Bucky tossed the end pieces of bread in the trash with a vague look of disgust and Steve gave the other man a disapproving look at the waste. It seemed to be a common action though, and an argument that Steve continued to lose, because they didn't even say anything beyond that other than a raised eyebrow from Bucky, like he was daring him to say something about it.

Personally, Peter would have been fine with the end pieces of bread, after having gone without for so long, but considering the amount of food laid out before them, he was okay with the butts of the loaf being discarded, too.

"Tony's going to want to meet you soon," Steve told Peter with a wry smile after they'd all made their way through at least one sandwich apiece. Peter blinked up at him, waiting for him to elaborate, and thankfully the huge blond did. "I'm sure JARVIS has already told him you're here to stay. I asked him about it while you were gone today," he directed that last bit to Bucky, before addressing Peter again. "He's totally willing to let you stay, though he was a bit offended that you'd be staying with us and wouldn't want your own floor." He nodded understandingly at Peter's definite nod – Peter definitely didn't want to live on his own floor, that was _way _too much, and he'd much rather be with Bucky because he was familiar and made him feel safe –

Peter shut down that line of thinking immediately, grateful that Steve continued to talk as it distracted him from his own thoughts. "If you _do _decide you want your own floor, let him know and he'd be more than willing to redecorate." A fondly exasperated look crossed his face. "Pretty sure if he wasn't a Stark he would've gone into interior design – that's how much he loves it."

Peter nodded in response to his words, though he knew already that he would _never _be asking for his own floor. Even if he _wasn't _living with Steve and Bucky, a whole floor to himself just seemed very…_excessive_.

"You can hold off on meeting him, though," Steve went on. "He'll either get _more _excited, like an overeager puppy yapping at your heels, or he'll be distracted by something in the meantime and by the time you meet him he'll act like you've always been here. It's your call, really."

Peter thought it would be pretty cool to meet Tony Stark, because honestly the guy was a _legend_. His advancements in technology and science had always made him a fan of the billionaire, even before he became Iron Man. And without the fear of everything to do with Spiderman getting in the way, he was merely excited at the thought of meeting his idol.

But he probably shouldn't do it that night, he supposed. He was exhausted both mentally and physically, and it was getting later at night and now that he was in a warm place he just honestly wanted to go to bed right then. He could meet the others in the morning. He didn't even want to go out as Spiderman tonight – he just wanted to get some sleep.

Steve understood before Peter even had to mime something, probably having seen Peter blink sleepily as he thought.

"Finish your sandwich," he directed gently, a kind smile crossing his face. "When you're done we can show you your room."

* * *

Peter blinked his eyes open, feeling very warm and cozy with the sleepy fog just beginning to lift from his brain. It was such a strange feeling, this feeling of warmth and safety, that in moments his brain jerked itself awake, certain that something must be wrong for things to be so different from what he was used to.

Sitting up in bed though, everything came rushing back to him when he saw the shaded windows with just the tops of other skyscrapers visible outside. He rubbed his hands over his face, rubbing the goobers from his eyes and stretching to wake his body up a bit more.

It was light outside, and Peter would guess it was midmorning based on the way the light reflected off the skyscrapers. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, unable to feel guilty for sleeping in so late when he could practically _feel _his body mending itself after getting proper food and rest in the same twenty-four hour window.

There was a bathroom connected to his bedroom, so that he didn't even have to leave the comfort of his bedroom to take care of his morning ablutions. He felt like he was in a hotel or intruding in someone else's space, but he nonetheless tried pushing away the feeling as he hopped in the shower and enjoyed being clean once again. Something about being clean just made him feel automatically better about himself, more hopeful for the day ahead.

When he stepped out of the shower though, he had to stop and stare when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

The mirror must have had some kind of temperature control on it to keep it from fogging up, because where Wade's – _Deadpool's _– had been too foggy for him to see his reflection in, this one was completely clear, and he was startled by his ability to see himself.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen himself in any kind of reflection, because he usually tried to avoid looking. Now though, he was startled and caught off guard, and now that he had noticed he couldn't tear his eyes away.

He looked terrible. There were no two ways about it. His hair was long, even the shortest bits coming past his earlobes, and it fell in uncombed clumps around him. His eyes looked hollow, cheeks sunken in, and he could see his collarbones and every one of his ribs without sucking in. He was pale, gaunt, with dark circles under his eyes like he'd smeared makeup there and tried wiping it off.

Abruptly he was filled with such utter self-loathing, and he watched as his face twisted up with a sneer of disgust, just making him that much uglier.

He hated his body. It was ugly, it didn't work right, and his stupid Spiderman powers insisted on giving him a six-pack before making sure that his skin wasn't going to rip around his bones for how it had to stretch to contain his insides. His forearms were still, as ever, an angry pink that he wasn't feeding himself enough to create webs. He hated that his Spidey powers made him look like this, that it was his being Spiderman that caused so many problems that he tried so hard to atone but he knew he'd never be able to manage it. How on earth was he supposed to meet the other Avengers, let alone Tony Stark, looking like _this_? And not only did he look like this, but he couldn't even speak and contribute to any kind of conversation. Surely it must be pity that had Bucky and Steve bringing them into their home. Why else would they see _any _kind of worth in the skin-and-bones mute teenager he actually was?

He was startled out of his thoughts by a soft knock at his bedroom door.

"Peter?" Bucky's rough voice called quietly. "You awake?"

Peter chided himself immediately and vociferously upon hearing the nervous trepidation in the older man's voice. Bucky wouldn't do what he'd done for _pity_, he knew that. He just got – stuck in his own head. That was never a good place to be, and he felt guilty for thinking about Steve and Bucky the way that he had. They didn't deserve that.

He knocked twice on the bathroom door to let Bucky know that he'd heard him, seeing as how he couldn't call out to him.

"Good," Bucky sounded relieved. "Uh…Steve had to go to an Avenger's meeting, so it's just you and me here. Do you…want to order in? Watch a movie?"

Peter considered this. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a movie, couldn't even remember what it was. He didn't know of any new movies that had come out in about the past year. He wasn't even sure what he liked anymore.

But Bucky was trying to be friendly, make him feel more comfortable here, so Peter supposed he could go along with it. He didn't want Bucky to think he didn't want to be around him.

He knocked twice again on the bathroom door, hoping Bucky would understand as he usually did. He opened the bathroom door, going to the dresser and grabbing the first clothes he saw, which turned out to be a comfy pair of lounge pants and a long-sleeve Henley. Good enough for him – they were clean, and they surprisingly actually fit.

When he opened the bedroom door, Bucky was standing there a bit awkwardly, and Peter quickly recalled, trying to remember if Bucky had said anything after he'd knocked on the door the last time. He didn't _think _he had, but he had been known all his life for getting lost in his own thoughts and forgetting to pay attention to the things and people around him.

But Bucky didn't look like he'd been expecting an answer to anything, so Peter figured (hoped) that he hadn't said anything important.

Curiously, Peter plucked at the hem of his shirt, tilting his head slightly and giving Bucky a questioning look. He really wanted to know how there were new clothes here that were only slightly too big for him but fit him comfortably enough.

"Where'd the clothes come from?" Bucky guessed, and Peter nodded. It was close enough to what he wanted to know. "I told JARVIS my guess of your height and weight – he matched it with clothing sizes a size up from yours, so you can grow into them when you eat more."

Peter blinked. That was – okay, yes, a bit intrusive, but also somehow really sweet. Not just the clothes, but the thought and care that went into getting them as well as the expectation of being able to fill into them over time. That definitely showed that Bucky was serious about him staying for a while, even if nothing else had. He gave Bucky a smile, causing the man to relax from his slightly stiff, nervous posture that Peter hadn't even realized he'd fallen into.

"Come on," Bucky said, nodding with his head toward the living room. "What kinda food do you want? JARVIS can order anything."

An hour or so later, they were in the middle of munching on chicken wings while watching _The Proposal_ ("Because Sandra Bullock is amazing and romantic comedies are the best, I will fight anyone on this, including you, Peter") when the elevator dinged its arrival on their floor.

Peter hardly had any time to tense up before Steve was coming into the room, surprisingly not in his Captain America uniform, as he might have expected upon learning that he was at an Avengers meeting. Then again, he reflected, if it was just the Avengers they probably met on a different floor somewhere and in that case there was no reason to change into a battle uniform just for a meeting with people he lived with, anyway.

Steve looked tired, but he smiled genuinely when he saw the two of them. "Hey, Buck. Hey, Pete," he greeted, even as he moved towards the pantry.

"What's it this time?" Bucky said as the movie continued to play.

"Just more Hydra shit," Steve answered with a sigh, surfacing with something in plain packaging that Peter couldn't identify. Then Steve glanced at Peter, seemingly remembering something, and he huffed out a tired little laugh. "Don't worry about it." He opened the package, and Peter thought it looked a bit like a protein bar.

Steve saw the screen then, and his eyes lightened a bit as he came over to them. "Hey, I like that actress," he said, pleased. "I don't think I've seen this one, though. Have you seen the one where she's undercover in a beauty pageant?"

After finishing _The Proposal_, Steve asked JARVIS to turn on _Miss Congeniality_, which Steve insisted was a must-see. Peter had heard of it before, and knew references to it that he hadn't realized were from it, but he'd never actually seen it before. He enjoyed it, though – found it funny.

He couldn't remember the end of it, though, because somehow, over the course of the movie, he had listed to the side and ended up leaning against Bucky. Bucky readily and easily accepted the movement, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and using the flesh hand to scratch against his scalp. And even though Peter had had a good night's sleep the night before – _great_, even – he still found himself dozing off before they were an hour into the movie.

The sequel began playing after the first one ended, but by then, Bucky was asleep, too.

Steve was the one left alone, awake and content to watch the two dozing on the couch more than the movie playing in front of them.

"Mute the movie please, J," Steve murmured quietly enough that he didn't wake the other two. JARVIS obeyed silently, leaving Steve to sit there quietly with the movie flashing lights across their faces from the images.

He was glad that Peter was safe, and he was glad that Bucky had found him – not just the day previous, but the first time. But he also worried, because Peter was a teenager who needed help, and he wasn't wholly certain that they were qualified to give it to him. Oh, sure, he cared about him, and he knew that Bucky would try and do his best because he cared even more about the kid than he did. But Peter was still a teenager, and a traumatized one at that. And he was mute, so they didn't even know what _kind _of trauma they were dealing with, and he couldn't help explain in that regard. Steve didn't know the first thing about raising a _normal_ teenager, and Bucky was in the same boat. How were they supposed to help this one?

Not to mention the fact that they were Avengers, and their lives brought danger, and how could they really be certain that they wouldn't traumatize Peter further with everything that came with that fact?

Looking at the two of them together, though, Steve's felt his heart clench with determination. Bucky hadn't attached to anything in particular since coming to the Tower several months ago. He hadn't even developed any hobbies of his own, for all that the others tried to encourage him. He had gone along with whatever Steve suggested, but it was clear that he didn't particularly care for it. Mostly, he had stayed in his room all day, surfing the Internet for hours at a time and only emerging for his therapy appointments, the odd meal with the others (even then usually only when Steve invited him), and his runs in the morning.

And sure, maybe it wasn't particularly _healthy _for Bucky to rely so heavily on another person rather than finding his own coping mechanisms, it was still the first interest Bucky had shown in anything since he had returned. And Bucky had attached so immediately and so strongly to Peter that while Steve didn't wholly understand their closeness after really not knowing each other very well at all, he wasn't going to try taking this away from his best friend. He was going to do all he could to make sure that Peter was safe and happy and maybe they could see about some kind of therapy for him too – or at least get him to talk with Sam a bit. Or, communicate anyway, because he _couldn't_ talk.

He would keep watch though, because while he would do his best by Bucky, he also needed to do his best by Peter. And if being among the rest of the Avengers was too much for the boy, if it became too dangerous…well, then he would need to have a serious conversation with Bucky about their options. Because they couldn't unwittingly let Peter become Bucky's crutch – he was still a person with his own needs and problems.

Steve just hoped that there could be a solution that would make everyone happy all around.

And so, it was with all of this in mind that Steve determined to protect both Peter _and _Bucky for as much and as long as he was able. And he had never been one to back down from a fight.

* * *

Peter woke up in the early evening feeling ravenous. This was a familiar feeling, and one he easily pushed away before he even remembered where he was and what he had been doing before he fell asleep.

The television was off now, and the apartment was quiet. Peter's enhanced sense of hearing detected the usual sounds of New York outside, but the walls and floors must have been built soundproof, because he couldn't hear anything from the other floors. He supposed distantly that this made sense, because both Steve and Bucky had enhanced senses too and it probably would have been pretty tiring to hear others having nightmares or listening to loud music. Soundproof floors made sense in that respect, and it made Peter wonder if the other floors were soundproof too or just this one.

He was leaning on a soft surface, and he pushed himself upright before he realized that what he had thought was the couch he was leaning on was actually James' side. He felt his face flush when the other man looked at him, clearly having been awake for a decent amount of time. Peter wondered why the guy hadn't moved or woke him up. It had to have been pretty boring to just sit there.

"Hey," Bucky said with his usual rough voice. "The rest of 'em are gathering on the common floor for dinner. You hungry?"

Peter was grateful that they could just brush by the fact that he had slept on top of the man – _again _– and talk about the important things. Like food.

Except…part of that was meeting the Avengers. Was Peter ready to face them? Not as Spiderman, but as plain old Peter, the mute homeless kid? Well, formerly homeless. Not anymore, with Bucky bringing him back to live with them.

He supposed he would have to get over with it eventually, and he had never been accused of being a coward (well, at least by the people who actually knew him – not his high school bullies or the villains he fought with who tried to taunt him into foolishness with petty jabs). So, he supposed he could resign himself to meeting the rest of them tonight.

"We don't have to go up there if you don't want to," Bucky continued while Peter pondered. "We have stuff in the fridge if we want something else, or we can order in. Whatever you're comfortable with. Steve's already up there, but it won't look weird to stay down here, because I do most nights anyway."

Peter had already decided though, and he wasn't backing down now, so he pointed to the elevator with a look that probably crossed between resigned and hopeful.

"Alright," Bucky accepted immediately, not questioning his decision, which Peter was grateful for. Not only because it would make him second-guess himself, but also because it showed that Bucky trusted Peter to make his own decisions, even knowing he was "just" a teenager, and that meant more than he could say.

Well, _everything_ meant more than he could say, because he couldn't speak. Haha, get it? Peter was punny.

"Come on," Bucky said, rising to his feet and waiting for Peter to stand up next to him before going to the elevator. "If we stay too long, Steve will take all the food."

* * *

Peter hardly had time to take his first breath on the common floor before his Spidey sense hummed a small warning and he ducked instinctively away from the projectile about to smack him in the face. His heart began to race, even though his Spidey sense went quiet after that, as Peter began to doubt and wonder just what he was getting himself into that someone was _already _trying to hit him with something – and before he even got off the elevator, too.

"Shit!" a semi-familiar voice said, and Peter looked down to see that the projectile was in fact a cornbread muffin, and felt his heart begin to calm again as confusion took over. Why was cornbread being thrown at him? Scratch that, why was it being thrown at _all_?

"We apologize in advance for Clint," a woman's voice drawled, and Peter looked up, still confused, to see the Black Widow herself standing a few feet away from him, rolling her eyes. Even in a blue tee shirt and grey sweatpants, feet bare and painted pink toes poking out the bottom, she still inspired a certain kind of fear and respect for what he knew she was capable of.

Clint – _Hawkeye _– was standing with folded arms and was…actually _pouting_.

"It would have made it in if the elevator doors hadn't opened _right then_," Hawkeye protested.

"And we believe you," Black Widow soothed, though the roll of her eyes showed her utter lack of patience for the other Avenger's shenanigans.

Bucky had been still beside Peter while they conversed, but now that it was clear that there was no immediate threat, he walked out of the elevator, and Peter followed his lead.

"Sorry, we didn't know you guys would be coming up," Hawkeye apologized. "I could've used the wall to bounce off of otherwise, but Steve said you were still sleeping when he left so I thought the elevator was a safe surface."

"Good reflexes though, kid," another voice said, and Peter looked over to see Falcon, smirking while he spooned up servings of some kind of casserole that Peter couldn't identify by sight or smell. Peter looked away, not sure how to react and unable to respond, and followed Bucky to the table, where _holy shit Tony Stark and Bruce Banner _sat discussing something quietly to themselves. His inner fanboy was shrieking and running around, because he was in the presence of the two biggest geniuses on _Earth _and he was wearing slightly too-big jeans and a tee shirt. He compulsively ran a hand over his hair, trying to flatten it where he was sure it had gone crazy in his sleep.

Mr. Stark himself glanced over, seemingly to think about what he was saying to Dr. Banner, but then caught sight of Peter and stopped talking to the other scientist abruptly. His face lit with an unholy smile, and he turned his chair, scooting closer to Peter as Peter sat down next to Bucky in the corner against the wall.

"So," Mr. Stark said, sounding like he was trying to hide his excitement. "You're the Super Soldiers' kid. Peter, right?"

Peter nodded, honestly a little surprised that the billionaire hadn't gone to use one of the obvious adjectives to describe him – mute, homeless, teenager…it warmed him a bit that those weren't what Mr. Stark remembered him by. He was just someone's kid.

Sort of. He was an orphan, but like…it was kind of the same idea.

"Well, Barnes and Noble have been keeping me out of your bedroom for _too long _now!" Mr. Stark proclaimed, smacking a hand on the table and causing Peter to startle. Bucky leaned a bit closer to him, and Peter welcomed it, drawing comfort from his nearness.

"We need to go over colors, Pete," the genius went on, and Peter couldn't help feeling like for all that the man postured and was loud, there was a certain sharpness in his eyes that showed he caught everything going on. This was supported by the fact that he lowered his voice just a notch, as though he'd noticed Peter's startlement and accommodated for him, to make him feel more comfortable.

"And even if you cover the walls in posters, you still need a good color underneath – a teenage boy should _not _have to deal with beige! Actually, we need to look at posters, too. If you like those, anyway. You want them for movies? Or is music better? Come to think of it, we need to think about…"

"Let the kid _breathe_, Tony," Steve said, coming up behind the man and giving him a little frown. "He just got here."

"_Exactly_!" Mr. Stark exclaimed, pointing a finger in the air and giving Steve a wide-eyed look of innocence. "So we should waste _no_ time in figuring out what makes him the most comfortable! We can have painters in _tomorrow_!"

Steve sighed and shook his head a bit, though Peter was sure that most of his exasperation was overshadowed by fondness for the other man, based on the little smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. Steve came and sat down beside Peter, and Peter relaxed a bit at the confirmation that he would be sitting only between people that he knew and was at least _somewhat _familiar with.

"Later, Tony," Falcon put in, appearing behind him from the kitchen while carrying eight bowls at once in his arms.

"Were you a waiter in a past life?" Mr. Stark demanded, switching gears so abruptly that Peter might have thought that Mr. Stark was an easily distracted jerk because he didn't actually care about what he was talking about before. And the first part of that was probably true, that he was easily distracted, but Peter didn't think that the man was a jerk, no matter what the media said. Steve and Bucky wouldn't like him if he was – their anti-bullying stance was legendary.

"I was a waiter in _this _life," Falcon snorted, sliding the bowls into their places. "Not all of us had a scholarship to college at fifteen – I had to work during college for food; military only paid for the school itself." He turned his head to Hawkeye and Black Widow, who were bickering quietly in the living room. "Come on, losers! Food's up!"

When one of the bowls landed in front of Peter, he blinked a bit, looking over at the rest of the servings. Yep, they all had less than him. Except for Steve and Bucky – they had marginally more, which made sense because they had super soldier metabolisms. But Peter was uncertain why he had so much – did Falcon somehow know that he had a super fast metabolism as well?

He looked up at the dark-skinned man as he returned from the kitchen with a large bowl of salad in one hand and three kinds of dressing in the other. Falcon caught him looking at him warily, and gave him a reassuring smile, which really didn't tell Peter anything about what the man might suspect but did its job in telling Peter not to worry. At least, not for now. Not when there was food in front of him.

"As usual, there are enough for seconds," Falcon said, seemingly to everyone, but Peter was pretty sure that it was said for his benefit. "Youngest to oldest, of course."

"If you make one more crack about my age, Wilson…" Steve began heatedly, though there was a definite twinkle in his eye at the teasing.

"I'm older 'n you, punk," Bucky grunted, cutting him off as he took a bite of his casserole. "By a hundred an' sixteen days."

"Yeah, and Steve's older than me by fifty-two years and ten months," Mr. Stark proclaimed, waving his spoon. "I am _not _the oldest person in this room."

"I'm only older than Tony by five months – do I really have to wait for _him_ to be done?" Dr. Banner called out.

"Ex_cuse _you, Brucie," Mr. Stark said, affecting offense. "It's five months and eleven days. That's almost two whole weeks – _own _those days!"

"Why were you complaining about not being the oldest when Bruce is already here?" Black Widow said with an arched eyebrow.

"Because he _looks _younger!" Mr. Stark whined. "It's not _fair_!"

"Good genetics," Bruce teased, sounding satisfied.

"I'm only a year and twenty days younger than you," Hawkeye cut in, and Mr. Stark whined again, because Hawkeye looked at least five or six years younger than him even still. "And then there's the huge jump to Natasha – about eleven years."

"When _is _your birthday, anyway?" Mr. Stark directed to Black Widow with eyes squinted in thought.

"1985," Natasha said placidly, blowing on her bite of casserole to cool it off before putting it in her mouth. "I have no idea of the actual date – records of girls that went to the Red Room were destroyed when they were brought in. I only know that I was six when the Soviet Union dissolved."

They were all quiet for a minute, not sure how to respond to that when Peter waved his hands to get their attention. He motioned to himself and then opened and closed his hands to make the fingers pointed up add up to sixteen. He gave them a dorky, sheepish kind of smile.

Falcon laughed first at his wordless input. "Yup, you've got us all beat," he said while the others chuckled. "Congrats, you can get seconds first."

"At least Thor's not here," Tony pouted. "He's like, fifteen hundred years old and he _still _looks younger than me."

"Everyone looks younger than you, Tony," Black Widow said unsympathetically. "Including Pepper."

"What the _hell_?" Tony screeched. "She's _three years older than me_!"

Peter huffed a silent laugh to himself at the bantering, and turned his attention back to the casserole. Who cared who was oldest, really? They'd still all get seconds, and that was really the important part.

* * *

**Trigger warning: Peter sees himself in the mirror, and ends up with some pretty serious thoughts of self-hatred. I don't know what this is called…body dysmorphia? Does this apply here? Not sure – anyone worried about themselves, tread lightly, though it is only a couple of paragraphs**


	10. Chapter 10

Peter was steadily growing more and more overwhelmed as the evening went on. He had learned everyone's names – or, not so much learned them as been instructed to call them by their actual names and not their codenames. None of them seemed to care that he wasn't _actually _calling them by anything – it was just important to them apparently that he thought of them by their names, or it was much too formal on his end.

It was a bit strange, to sit at dinner with them and hear their bantering. Somehow, he had always pictured them as these unattainable, statue-like people who were too cool to do anything except…well, he didn't know. Fight bad guys? Practice knife throwing? Something super cool. He had definitely never imagined that they would eat dinner together, not so much as a team but as a _family_, with all of the bantering and arguing that went along with that. Clint and Tony almost came to blows over the last cornbread muffin, before Natasha swooped in and took it, daring them with a singular raised eyebrow to try and fight her for it while she took a bite from it.

Wisely, naturally, they had both subsided. No one wanted to cross Natasha.

As time went on though, Peter began to feel overwhelmed with the amount of noise and stimulation he was receiving. He had felt comfortable enough to get seconds, but before he got halfway through the bowl, the stress in his body made it taste like ash in his mouth and he felt like he was choking on his own throat. He tried eating more, not wanting to waste the food or draw attention to himself, but he soon realized that drawing attention to his struggle would be infinitely worse.

It's just that – everyone was talking, and laughing, and being loud because they were comfortable with each other and didn't have as many struggles as Peter himself did, and he was so _frustrated _because he just wanted to be normal. He wanted to be comfortable with other people, and be able to talk, and laugh, and eat, and not feel like his stomach was going to come out his throat if he tried to do _any _of those things. Frustrated tears pricked at his eyes, but he swallowed them back because he didn't want these strangers to see him cry, either.

"You alright, kid?" a familiar gravelly voice whispered in his ear. Peter startled, not having even noticed that James had leaned into his space. He looked over to meet grey-blue eyes dimmed with concern, corners of his mouth surrounded by stubble turned down in a slight frown.

Peter didn't even have to motion or do anything – Bucky gazed at him for a mere moment before he gave a short, slight nod and rose to his feet, seeing whatever he needed to in Peter's face already.

"I'm done," he told Steve only. "I – it's a lot."

Peter gratefully rose to his feet as well, ready to follow James back to their floor and glad that Bucky hadn't called attention to him but took it upon himself to claim a bad day. He was pretty sure Steve had heard Bucky's comment meant only for Peter, because when Peter glanced at him Steve only nodded, allowing them both to go off and not looking as concerned as Peter would have expected, had it truly been Bucky having a bad day. He remembered the expression on Steve's face after he had figured out that James had run out of words the day before – now he was wholly calm and not looking pained at all – only understanding.

"Pe_-ter_, you don't have to go, too!" Clint whined in protest when he saw Peter beginning to leave with Bucky.

"Eat your salad, Clint," Steve ordered before Peter had time to panic about what to do. "Leave Buck and Pete alone."

Clint continued to grumble and whine, but he and everyone else probably heard the strictness in their Captain's voice that brooked no room for argument and only called out scattered goodbyes to the two as they made their way to the elevator.

The doors closed in front of them, cutting the sound off, and making Peter aware of the fact that he was breathing much too loudly. James didn't say anything, but he tugged Peter closer with an arm around his shoulders, giving him comfort that Peter readily sank into. He let out a shaky breath and wrapped his arms around Bucky, burying his face in his armpit out of embarrassment, not wanting the older man to see his face even while he accepted the offered comfort.

They got off on their floor, and Bucky guided him to the couch, sitting down beside him.

"The first time I went to dinner with the rest of them," Bucky started after several moments of silence where Peter regained control of his breathing, "I stabbed Clint in the hip. All considered, I think you did pretty well for your first dinner with them."

Peter snorted in surprised amusement at the confession, and calmed even further – probably Bucky's intent behind telling him this.

"I think it's just good that it wasn't Sam that I hit," Bucky went on with a wryly amused twist to his lips. "He still goes on about how the first time we met I ripped out the steering wheel when he was driving down the highway. And then the second time I ripped his wing off and kicked him off a helicarrier. Third hit and I think he may start thinking I have a vendetta against him specifically."

Peter looked at Bucky with wide, surprised eyes, not having known that about Bucky and Sam. Really, he didn't know how Sam had joined the Avengers – just knew that it was during the whole Winter Soldier fiasco in DC. But he didn't know any kind of details of their beginning interactions. He didn't know if that's because it wasn't public knowledge, or if it was because he had been completely out of the loop of all news for almost a year.

Bucky laughed quietly at the look on Peter's face, his own expression going a bit abashed. "I'll tell you the story some other time."

Peter had no problem agreeing to this, and settled back into Bucky's hold.

They sat there for a bit, Bucky punctuating the silence every once in a while with a random comment or two, and Peter found himself calming without even realizing it.

After a bit though, Peter found himself feeling restless, with a need to _move_, to do – something. It was a familiar itch, and one that Peter thought he'd have no problem scratching now as the sun dipped below the horizon.

Sitting up, Peter looked at James and wiped a hand over his face like he was applying a new one, before he pointed to the window, at the city just outside.

"You want…out?" Bucky questioned, an uncertain furrow to his brow.

Peter nodded, but knew by his confusion that he didn't know that he was talking about Spiderman. To clarify his intent, he pointed his wrist at Bucky like he was going to shoot him with webs.

Bucky's confusion cleared, and he nodded, though he looked a bit nervous. "Some time, I'll get you a comm that you can wear in case you need help." At Peter's doubtful look, he went on, "And mostly so that I know you're okay. I know you can't talk, but – I think it'd help. Just in case."

Peter nodded agreeably, hoping that Bucky would forget about this in the future and not feeling like arguing about it at the moment. Besides, it was hard to argue when the opposing party could just look away or close their eyes while still arguing _their _side.

"Don't stay out too late," Bucky instructed, though it seemed more a request, which Peter was grateful for because he didn't need someone bossing him around like he couldn't take care of himself. He nodded in acquiescence, rising to his feet and going to his bedroom to don his Spidey suit.

Moments later, he leaped out the window at the side of the Tower, throwing out a web to the next building over.

* * *

Peter was feeling more comfortable in his skin a few hours later, having stopped a few muggings and having helped a drunk young woman find her way back safely to her apartment. The air felt cool against his skin, barely shielded by his suit, but for once it didn't seem quite so bitingly cold. Maybe it was the hopeful feeling he carried, knowing that he had somewhere warm to get back to when he would go to sleep, or maybe it was the fact that he'd eaten more in the past forty-eight hours than he had in two weeks. In any case, there was a bit more of a spring to his step, a bit more pizzazz in his fighting maneuvers.

The universe seemed to be rewarding him too, because he was kept busy the entire time he was out. They were small things, easily stopped, so he didn't have any kind of risk but he could still get his excess jitters out.

He lost track of time as he went, because he was so caught up in actually having fun with the work he was doing, in actually feeling like he had the energy to do it again. He knew he wasn't healed – the still-vivid rash on his arms warned him against using his webs too much even still, and it was a good gauge for the health of his body – but he felt loads better just because of the past twenty-four hours. It was like when he remembered being sick with the stomach flu, and immediately after throwing up he felt so relieved he felt he could do anything, completely cured.

But he also remembered how in the next few moments, his stomach would curdle again and he'd still have a few more hours of sickness before being completely better again.

Right now though, he was feeling pretty good, in the moments before his "sickness" would crash into him again, so he took advantage of it while he could and took down as many bad guys as he was able to.

It was around midnight when he finally decided to take a few moments to get his breath back, and sprang up the side of a building to get to the roof, landing lightly and nimbly on the edge.

It was only once he was up there however that he noticed that Deadpool was already seated there, and he mentally kicked himself, wondering how he hadn't noticed him before, or why his Spidey sense hadn't warned him this roof was already occupied.

But, he told himself, Deadpool was…something. A friend, maybe. And he couldn't not-avoid the mercenary forever.

So, he settled into his seat, giving Deadpool a friendly wave of greeting.

"Heya, Spidey," Deadpool greeted, sounding – tired, actually. Peter stilled, noticing for the first time that the man wasn't sitting with his usual flamboyance. He wasn't sitting straight, kicking his feet and nodding his head to an imaginary tune as he usually was. Peter hadn't even thought about the movements before, but now that Deadpool was slouched, just sitting there, not even eating but just staring down below him, Peter couldn't help noticing how different it was, and how – _wrong _– it felt. Deadpool was this beacon of unbeatable cheer and a complete absence of seriousness, so seeing him still and quiet in the middle of the night, alone…Peter didn't like it.

He paused, before he came to a decision within himself and rose to his feet, crossing the small distance to sit within inches of the older man. He leaned over, bumping shoulders with the mercenary to get his attention and tilting his head in question.

"Aw, no need to worry yourself, Spidey," Deadpool said, the fabric over his mouth shifting in a way that seemed to imply a wry smile. "Just an off night for me. Not an 'off-_myself_' night, at least not so far yet, but ya know."

Peter blinked in confusion, turning over Deadpool's words before he tilted his head the other way to indicate that that really hadn't been an answer.

Deadpool chuckled. "You're very expressive, you know that?" he said randomly, kicking his feet a bit. "I don't even have facial cues to guess what you're trying to say – I'm relying solely on body language here. But somehow you still always make it pretty clear. Not like me. I can talk and talk and never really say anything. The Merc With the Mouth, you know? 'S what they call me. Maybe some of them say that because I get caught swearing more than any other superhero and anti-hero out there, but it's also 'cause I just don't _stop talking_. I useta get in a lotta trouble in school for it, but now I have Bea, Arthur, and Betty in particular to back me up so no one tells me to shut up unless they're very stupid or they know they're going to die anyway. And I like talking! I don't know what I'd do without it – I don't know how _you _do it, either. I'd 've gone crazy by now. Well. Crazi_er_. Pretty sure the voices in my head tells me I'm crazy by any psych's standards. But I enjoy it. Being crazy, anyway. I've always got company! Even if they're right bastards most of the time."

Peter allowed Deadpool's rambling to wash over him as usual, noticing as the man continued to talk to him that he began to relax and brighten up again, swinging his feet and making expansive gestures to communicate the enormity of what he was saying. He felt his own lips tug up in response, watching the mercenary – watching his _friend _– cheer up as time went on.

He must have been talking – with occasional wordless input from Peter – for almost a half hour before he finally began to talk about what really must have been bothering him.

"…and so I've been looking for this kid for a whole week now, but I can't find him! I know New York is a big city with eight and a half million people to look through, but I'm a mercenary! It's my _job_ to find people, but one homeless teenager is proving smarter than me. I just want to make sure he's okay, yannow? Good ol' Bucky Barnes has been looking too, but he hasn't called in a couple'a days, so I think he might hate me now. Damn shame. I need to meet Captain America before I die! Heh – I won't die, so I guess before _he _dies. Though who knows for _that_, either?! Dude's lived a few decades already and looks better than I do. Though, that's not hard to do – dog vomit looks better than I do…"

After that, Deadpool went off about something else that Peter only followed with half an ear. Deadpool was still looking for him? Or – Peter. He was right there, but Deadpool didn't know it, and he never would. But he would've thought that Deadpool would have gotten distracted by something or someone else by now. There were a ton of other opportunities that the mercenary would surely have to meet his idol Captain America (whom Peter now _lived with_, and wasn't that a trip?). Why would Deadpool be trying so hard on a useless homeless kid who got dumped off at his apartment?

There must be something he was missing, Peter decided. Maybe Daredevil had threatened him. Peter didn't know the vigilante of Hell's Kitchen all too well, but he could imagine the man with the horned mask would have no problem threatening or even just striking a deal with Deadpool to find Peter. To…make sure he was okay? That couldn't be right, though. He could maybe kind of understand that Bucky thought he was important and worth protecting (not that he needed it, but it was nice anyway). Even Steve he could understand taking the time to take Peter under his enormous wing of protection, because Steve and Bucky were basically like brothers and so when Bucky was protective of Peter and Steve was protective of Bucky he would also be protective of what Bucky was protecting.

But – anyone else? Protecting plain old Peter? They must want something from him. But what?

Maybe Daredevil knew his identity. He _had _seemed a bit too unfazed by Peter's fighting skills, too sure in his movements as he took him to _Deadpool_ for protection, of all people. There had been no question whether or not Peter would be comfortable with or even trust the merc to protect him, and that was strange to expect of a random homeless kid.

But why wouldn't Daredevil look for Peter on his own, then? Why send Deadpool?

But why else would Deadpool, not knowing of Peter's identity, care to find a random homeless kid if not for someone employing him?

He shook his head a bit to clear his mind of these thoughts, wondering if he would ever understand Deadpool's habits and thought process.

He rose to his feet at a lull in the other man's rambling, because it was getting late and he should probably get back to the Tower. He knew that Bucky would be in bed by now, but he _had _agreed not to stay out too late, which he was only remembering now. He wasn't sure what time it was, but it was surely getting a bit into the realm of "late".

"You need help patrolling again?" Deadpool said when he got up though, jumping to his feet as well in undisguised excitement.

Peter paused as he was about to mime sleeping. He hadn't been on patrol with Deadpool in a while, and he could see that the man still had some jitteriness – the same that Peter had been dealing with early that night. He didn't know if it came from restlessness or from residual anxiety about what had been bothering him before, but he felt immediately guilty at the thought of leaving his friend Deadpool alone like this.

He told himself that it was purely because if left to his own devices, Deadpool would probably go and kill a bunch of people, and no matter what the guy said, that _couldn't _be good for his mental health, shoddy as it was already. It was certainly not because he knew exactly what Wade felt like and felt sympathetic.

Honestly, he could kind of understand Deadpool's response to stress and loneliness, how he took jobs in and out of the country not for the money but for something familiar to do, something to make him feel. Although Peter couldn't be as reckless, being much more breakable and definitely killable, he generally de-stressed by going out patrolling. So maybe helping Deadpool de-stress through partnered patrolling could help both of them.

So, rather than miming the need for sleep, Peter decided that he could spend time out a bit longer, help Deadpool out a bit.

Well, not just Deadpool. Patrolling was always good for the people of the city, too. That was why he did it, after all. Mostly.

He wished later that he had just decided "screw it" and gone back to the Tower after all.

Maybe then things wouldn't have gone to shit.

* * *

They worked for a couple of hours, and Peter found himself actually having _fun_. He didn't feel so stressed out anymore, or as on edge about maybe revealing something to Deadpool. He was more comfortable with the man, having made that small mental shift where he could see the similarities between the two of them, as different as their methods were. Feeling that kinship made him more at ease around him, even while a voice in the back of his mind warned him to keep his distance.

He did his best to shove that voice away, though. He had decided that Bucky could be his friend after a relatively short amount of time actually knowing him. He knew that it was because his hindbrain recognized that Bucky could defend himself.

So really, he should do the same for Deadpool. He had known _him _for much longer – a little more than four months now. And he had seen Deadpool heal from so many things, had heard in unnecessarily graphic detail how many times Deadpool had come back to life after several different times of being murdered. His curse that he had decided that Bucky was probably mostly immune to probably didn't and wouldn't touch Deadpool, either.

And so it was with all of this in mind that he firmly told the voice in his head to shut up, that Deadpool _could _be his…his _friend_.

He shivered with anxiety at the thought, but…he would try. He would do his best to accept that Deadpool genuinely liked being around him, and that he would be _safe _doing so.

"…and then the guy sicced this fucking _sentient cactus _on me!" Deadpool exclaimed later, telling him yet another story of one of his crazy jobs. He had a lot of them, and they were never boring.

It was the early hours of the morning, but not late enough that the sky was beginning to lighten yet. Peter thought vaguely to himself that he should get a watch for situations like these – there was nothing to differentiate the hours at this time of night. Between the hours of one and four, traffic was _marginally _lighter than normal, but not enough that he could guess what time it was by its flow.

They were sitting on a building overlooking the East River, seeing the lights of Manhattan across the way that never went out. They weren't even eating, but Peter enjoyed (and pushed down anxiety about) the companionship between them, swinging his own feet beside Deadpool's.

"I'm real' glad I can talk to you, Spidey," Deadpool said with an uncharacteristic, vulnerable sort of honesty. "You're good at listening – and not just 'cause you're mute. I can't talk to most people, you know? That's not even all because of looking like an old avocado – that's always been the case. But you never tell me to shut up, and y'know, I hope you don't get bored and I just can't tell, but I like to think I'm pretty good at reading people, and I did just say earlier that you're very expressive, but maybe I'm wrong? But, you keep coming back. Maybe you're a masochist, I dunno…"

Peter could sense that the rambling this time was due to nervousness, and he didn't want his friend (his _friend_!) to feel uncomfortable, so this time he _did _cut him off with a pat of understanding to the leg right beside his. Wade was tense for a moment, trailing off, but then he relaxed and let out a breath of relief.

"Thanks, Spidey," the masked man said, reaching up to sling an arm around Peter's shoulders, tugging him closer in a slightly awkward but still comfortable side hug. It was an easy movement, one born of familiarity, but something niggled at the back of his mind at the action.

It didn't feel…_wrong_, exactly…but there was something pressing at his memories, trying to tell him something about this hug, about Wade's chin resting on top of Peter's head, trying to remind him of something important.

"You wanna patrol again sometime this week?" Wade was asking him, lifting his chin off Peter's head but keeping his arm wrapped loosely around his smaller form.

With a jolt, Peter suddenly realized what was equal parts familiar and strange about their position. He felt his heart drop to his stomach with dread and sickness at the realization, because –

He used to hold Gwen like this. Next to each other, on a bench maybe, but he was bigger than her and was usually the one doing the holding rather than being held. He was the one who would rest his chin on top of her head with casual ease and familiarity, comfortable in each others' presence.

But…but she had been his girlfriend. They had been in love.

Deadpool was…Deadpool was Deadpool. He was his friend. He didn't know how old the man was, but by how he talked, he had to be at _least_ in his late twenties.

And Peter – Peter was sixteen.

Thoughts whirling with realization and guilt, Peter jerked upright. He needed – he needed to get away. He couldn't deal with his thoughts right now, not with Wade _right there_.

He nodded jerkily in response to Deadpool's question, just barely remembering to answer the man. He rose on unsteady legs to his feet, pointing at his wrist where a watch would sit to explain his reason for leaving right then.

Wade's posture was concerned though, because of course he never missed anything.

"You okay, Spidey?" he asked, reaching out a tentative hand like he was going to touch him but wasn't sure what his reception would be. "You're looking a little spooked, there."

Peter nodded again, insistent, and tapped his wrist again before giving a wave of farewell and running the other way.

He jumped off the roof, knowing he shouldn't but shooting out a web anyway. Jumping from building to building using hands and feet would be safer, but using his webs was faster, and he needed to get away as fast as possible because anxiety and guilt was shooting through him in tidal waves and he just needed to _move_.

He knew that Wade joked, and he was never afraid to make innuendos or compliment some physical part of him or all of him. But, Peter had thought that that was just – just _Deadpool_. It was what he did. Deadpool said it himself – he talked and talked without ever saying anything important. Peter had of course assumed that that's what Wade had been doing with _him_.

And he'd just accepted that Wade was his _friend_. But had he been reading things wrong this entire time? Did Wade expect something else? Was Wade angling for – for a _romantic _relationship?

He didn't have a problem with the idea of dating a man in general – he'd known he was bi since he was thirteen and realized he wondered just as much what kissing a boy would be like as he had kissing a girl.

But…but that would have been if that someone was in the same _age range_ as him.

Did Wade even _suspect _that Peter was younger than eighteen? Because if he had, then why…why would the man – the _grown _man – be attracted to him?

Peter was pretty sure the man wasn't a pedophile. And sure, he looked older than the average sixteen-year-old, notwithstanding the slight frame he had the musculature of someone in his young twenties. And Wade had never heard his voice, didn't know if it would sound too young. And he didn't have a school schedule that he had to keep anymore, so he saw Deadpool at all hours of the day. Maybe he should give Wade the benefit of the doubt, that he truly had no idea how old Peter was.

But he was still just a teenager, and he didn't _want _to date someone as old as he presumed Wade was. And the idea that maybe Deadpool hadn't been interested in friendship all this time, but that he wanted and expected something _more_…

Peter realized that his mask was wet, sticking to his face with his tears. He hadn't even noticed that he'd started crying, but now that he had he couldn't help the wordless sob that was ripped from his throat.

He just wanted to get back to the Tower, lock himself in his room and hide under his covers, wishing that this night had never happened. He was feeling confused and betrayed – by Wade, and by his own ignorance and lack of thought.

Why had he never noticed before now? Why had he just assumed that it was just _Deadpool being Deadpool_? Surely there must have been signs before now. Wade used nicknames, he flirted, he made sure that Peter was safe and tried to help him with his own mental struggles, and Peter had just chalked it up to him being friendly.

God, he was such an _idiot_. No one was friendly without a reason, without an agenda. Here he had been freaking out about maybe being _friends _with Deadpool, when really the entire time he should have been more worried about Feelings.

He had no idea what to think at this point. He had thought he and Wade were just friends – ha, "_just_". Now he didn't know – had he been unintentionally encouraging Wade's crush? Was it really his own fault for not just doing what he always did, following his instinct and pushing the man away from the beginning?

It certainly _felt _like it was all his fault. He had just been so grateful that the mercenary hadn't thought it was weird that he was mute, that he just took it in stride, and he hadn't had the strength to avoid him or send him away.

He only had himself to blame for this, he realized. His curse hadn't hurt Deadpool, but _he _had. He could never…he could never –

He couldn't finish the thought without choking on another sob, and it was with an angry grimace that he shot out his wrist at another building, arm burning like liquid fire as his spinnerets were overtaxed.

He only realized a moment later what he'd done, as he released the web behind him and found himself rapidly falling toward the street below, the web he'd just shot out snapping at several weak points.

Panic flooded his mind, and he desperately tried shooting out another web – if not to carry him to a building, then at least to slow his fall.

But his webs were weak like soggy bread, and there was no resistance to keep him up or slow him down, and they fell apart as soon as one end stuck to the building. He was left with no support, plummeting as a dead weight toward the ground.

He hit the sidewalk, and pain exploded all over his body. His attempt to curl his body to try and mitigate damage only caused him to roll once, twice, three times before he fell against a wall, halting his progress.

Gasping for breath and dizzy with pain but currently unable to catalogue his injuries, he stared up at the buildings above him. He thought he was out of the way of foot traffic, on a quieter street, but he couldn't tell with the ringing in his ears.

Darkness crowded at the edges of his vision, and he tried forcing it away, because passed out right here would leave him vulnerable, completely defenseless in his Spiderman suit.

But it was no use, because his head was pounding and his chest ached and he was feeling much too sleepy…

A moment later, the oblivion of sleep forced him under.


	11. Chapter 11

Bucky knew that Peter could take care of himself.

Really, he did. Peter had been taking care of himself for almost a year now, from what Bucky could gather. The kid was resourceful and smart.

But…well, he was still just a kid. Sixteen fucking years old. And Bucky worried, alright? Because Peter had been overwhelmed earlier after the dinner with the rest of the team, and he had agreed not to stay out too late.

Bucky glanced at the clock again for the fifth time in as many minutes. 3:27.

This was _not _'not too late'.

He hadn't told the kid he was going to wait up, but he couldn't suppress the urge to do so. He just wanted to make sure Peter was alright when he got back.

Steve had gone to bed around midnight, unconcerned about Peter. Of course, Bucky had told him that Peter had gone to bed when Steve had arrived after dinner, and Steve had chalked up Bucky's restlessness and hidden worry to Peter's reaction at dinner, but still Bucky kind of wanted to throw a shoe at his friend for his calm attitude. He knew Steve would be worried if he knew the truth, and he would help Bucky as much as he could, but Bucky had promised Peter that he would keep this secret from everyone, including Steve, and he wasn't about to break it just because he was feeling a bit worried antsy.

He glanced at the clock again. 3:28.

He would have gone out looking already, but…well, there was a little voice in his head telling him that Peter had left with no intention of coming back. Finding Peter now…well, it would just be awkward. Peter would have to tell him that he didn't plan to return, and Peter would probably feel bad about that. The teenager must have left this way so that he _didn't _have to have some sort of confrontation to tell him he was leaving.

But – what if Peter _hadn't _meant to leave? He argued with himself. What if he was in trouble?

Indecision kept him at bay, not really watching the documentary playing across the screen that JARVIS had pulled up for him. He thought it was about bees, but it just as easily could have been about home building. He had mentally checked out after one AM hit.

Thinking about the clock made him look at it again. 3:29. He sighed, tapping his thumbs together.

"Sergeant Barnes," JARVIS' soft voice pulled him from his thoughts about the Spider kid. He looked at the ceiling, even though Tony chided everyone for doing just that often enough, because JARVIS wasn't in the ceiling but was everywhere around them.

"Please gather an extra change of clothes for Master Peter," JARVIS instructed in his usual placid voice. "I have sent pertinent details to your phone."

"JARVIS, what's wrong?" Bucky said urgently, getting to his feet and moving quickly to Peter's room.

JARVIS paused, and the silence only allowed for Bucky's worry to increase. He hadn't been here for very long, in the grand scheme of things, but he knew enough about the AI that he knew JARVIS never _hesitated_.

"Spiderman is unconscious at the base of an alley near the East Village," was all JARVIS said when he finally spoke.

Bucky froze in front of Peter's dresser, words repeating themselves in his mind and feeling not only alarm for Peter's predicament and wellbeing, but also for the implications of what JARVIS had said.

"You _know_?" he finally demanded, grabbing a tee shirt, pair of jeans, and some tennis shoes before making his way to the elevator, grabbing his phone on the way from where he'd left it on the couch. "How did you find out?"

"I don't have video surveillance of the bedrooms or bathrooms," JARVIS said, "But I do have surveillance of the windows on the outside of the Tower. Master Peter departed by way of his own bedroom window. With other clues pieced together through public video footage, it was obvious from there."

"Don't tell Tony," Bucky uncharacteristically ordered, and then swiftly added, "Don't tell _anyone_."

"Of course not," JARVIS actually sounded _offended _at the idea. "I would never reveal the secrets of those inhabiting the Tower unless they directly affect the safety of anyone else."

Bucky didn't have anything to say to that, so he didn't. As the elevator opened into the garage, he opened his phone to the directions JARVIS had sent him on where to find Peter.

He hoped the kid was okay.

* * *

Bucky found Peter's form quickly thanks to JARVIS' directions. He was at the mouth of an alley, just in a shadow cast by a smelly dumpster and somehow curled up while on his back. It looked wildly uncomfortable, and Bucky wondered just how Peter had managed to land in such a position. Had someone managed to get the jump on him and knock him out? That didn't seem possible, not for Spiderman. But Bucky knew that Spiderman was actually a struggling teenage boy, just recently come back from being homeless, so perhaps he was sick and recovering and it hadn't been a good idea after all for him to go out in his vigilante alter-ego.

Kneeling down quickly next to Peter's small form, Bucky kicked himself repeatedly for letting him go outside in his condition. Clearly Peter didn't know what was best for him health wise, and he needed someone else to make sure he was taking care of himself. Bucky thought that Peter might find that idea slightly patronizing, but he knew for a fact that if Pepper hadn't been taking care of Tony in the same way since she had known him in the beginning, the billionaire would have died at least a decade ago.

He wasn't thinking about that at the moment though, much more concerned with checking Peter over to make sure nothing was broken. He felt along his arms and his legs, but there was nothing there that he could detect. He definitely had a sprained wrist and a twisted ankle, though. He could already see the swelling, and worried about Peter's healing factor, that it would allow the injury to get that bad. Of course, he didn't know how strong Peter's healing factor truly was, but somehow he felt that right now, it wasn't doing its job as it should.

It was when he felt and prodded along Peter's chest, checking for broken ribs, that he pressed down in one spot and Peter let out a choked gasp, stirring for the first time and waking up. He flailed, clearly panicking about someone kneeling over him, and Bucky quickly put both hands on Peter's shoulders to keep him from moving too much, wishing that Peter's mask was off so he could see his expression to communicate.

"Hey, shh, sh," Bucky hushed the alarmed teen. "It's okay, it's me, it's Bucky. You have a couple of broken ribs and some sprained joints – don't move too much."

Peter's scared gasps died down as he realized where he was, the white eyes of his Spiderman mask turned toward Bucky's face. A hand – the one without the sprained wrist – pressed into his midsection in an attempt to ward off the pain.

"I brought you some clothes to change into," Bucky murmured, patting Peter's shoulder before pulling his hands away and grabbing the bag he'd brought to carry said clothes. "No one else is coming – you're safe to change here. You need some help?"

Peter shook his head, accepting the tee shirt with a wince that Bucky could only see by a slight tightening of the jaw through the mask. He pulled it on slowly over the Spidey uniform, and Bucky spared a moment to be grateful that the shirt he'd grabbed had long sleeves to cover the familiar blue and red design. The jeans he'd grabbed went on with more difficulty than the shirt, with the swelling of Peter's ankle making it harder, but he managed. It was only after the clothes were on that Peter removed the mask, but he had such a hard time with it due to the sprained wrist that Bucky insisted on helping him to remove the gloves and the boots to prevent further aggravating Peter's wrist.

With the boots removed – Peter grimacing through the entire process – Bucky sucked in a breath at the deep purple bruising around the ankle. He didn't think Peter's foot would be able to fit into his tennis shoes like this, let alone walk on it.

"Yeah, we'll just skip your shoes," he told Peter in no uncertain terms. "You can't walk on this, anyway – I'll just carry you back to the Tower."

Peter looked up at him, clearly ready to protest, before his jaw tightened and he looked away, but not before Bucky saw the tears glistening in his eyes. It threw Bucky off a bit, because he had never once seen Peter this close to crying, and like this – hair tousled and sweaty, clothes swimming around his small frame – he looked incredibly young. And Bucky didn't know if he was ready to cry from pain, or frustration, or…any of the other things that Bucky just didn't _understand _yet after having to suppress, ignore, and dismiss his own emotions for so long he'd forgotten exactly what it felt like, let alone what it looked like.

"We'll get some binding for your ribs when we get back," Bucky went on after a pause. "And some braces for your wrist and your ankle. We should be safe – Steve doesn't get up until six, so we have a couple of hours to get you into your bed."

Peter looked back at him, and it took Bucky a moment to recognize the look in Peter's eyes as – as _defeated_. It threw him again, because Peter had been doing mostly alright before he'd left, and he didn't know what might have happened to have put that look on Peter's face. It was too strong of an emotion for a mere mugging gone wrong, but Bucky couldn't think of anything that might have put Peter in the condition he was in without it being physical. And his uniform wasn't twisted or scrunched or wrinkled, so no one had done anything…_that _way.

He decided to leave it aside for the moment in favor of getting Peter back to the Tower without too many people noticing them. He decided to carry him piggyback, so that Peter could have a straight line of support against his chest when Bucky stood up straight, so that his injuries were not further aggravated. He carried the bag across his front like a papoose so that it didn't get in the way, because no way was he letting Peter put it on his own back, no matter how he reached for it to try and assist.

It was a good thing he was skilled at hiding in plain sight, because despite the ridiculous appearance they no doubt made as he trekked through Manhattan, no one batted an eye at the scene – of the two people he counted who saw them. But, he allowed, perhaps that was just because New Yorkers just truly didn't give a fuck what other people did, too used to seeing all sorts of things in the big city.

Twenty minutes later, Peter was sitting on the closed toilet seat in Bucky's personal bathroom, trying to tell him with shakes of his head that he didn't need his help taking off the suit. He kept wincing though, and Bucky refused to budge on this, because Peter needed help and was clearly trying to hide something – probably another injury, though Bucky didn't know why – and he knew already that the kid had a concussion, so clearly he wasn't operating on all cylinders.

"Kid, the sooner we get your suit off, the sooner we can get you all taped up and you can go to bed," Bucky argued, feeling very tired. The scene was familiar, and he knew that he had had these same kind of arguments in the past when Steve was small and sickly, even if he couldn't clearly remember any particular instance. But where logic usually worked with Steve – 50% counted as 'usually', right? – Peter refused to be swayed.

"Is it because it hurts too much?" Bucky suddenly realized, and could have kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner. "Here, I have…"—he moved over to the cabinet under the sink, easily locating one of the many pill bottles—"I have these pain meds; Bruce developed them for Steve a while back, and yeah I know it's technically illegal to take drugs that aren't prescribed to you like this, but it'll work even with your advanced metabolism and we can't exactly _tell_ someone you need narcotics about eight times stronger than is technically healthy for the human body without raising several questions…" He sighed and stopped when he saw Peter shaking his head again.

"I don't know what to tell you, Pete," he said, rubbing his eyes with one hand. "You need to be bandaged up, and you can't do it yourself, but you need to get out of that suit so that you can keep Spiderman a secret, and you need to do it before your ankle swells even worse and we have to cut it off. What do you need from me?"

Peter gazed at him steadily, several emotions that Bucky couldn't identify flickering through his eyes like cars passing on a freeway. He waited for Peter to reach some sort of conclusion, ready to argue again if need be, but finally Peter nodded in resigned acquiescence, raising his arms so that Bucky could tug the uniform off.

Bucky set the pill bottle on the counter and hurried to help Peter with the suit before he could change his mind and rediscover his obstinacy once again.

There was a zipper in the back, which Bucky quickly slid down, swallowing to hold back his sadness at seeing the ribs protruding from the boy's back. Two of them had skin stretched over that had turned a deep purple, a clear sign of broken ribs from that side, too.

He pulled his eyes from that at the moment though, leaning back to tug the uniform past Peter's bony and protruding shoulders, moving carefully to avoid jostling any injuries more than necessary.

It was when he got the sleeves down to Peter's elbows that he thought he might have discovered what Peter was so intent on hiding, as angry red skin curled down the entirety of his forearms like they'd been rubbed raw with a copper sponge. It looked like each of his veins – even the tiny ones – were swollen underneath the pale skin. He glanced up at Peter, but the boy had his head turned away, jaw tight and chewing on his lip.

He looked back at the arms, not sure what the cause of the redness was but deciding to hold off on asking Peter about it.

It was when he got the sleeves off though that he saw a spot on each of Peter's wrists that looked like particularly angry spider bites (yes, he saw the irony in that). He held Peter's wrist for a moment, examining the spots but determining that whatever it was causing the spots and the redness trailing from them up his arm was due to something wrong with Peter's body and not an outside source. He could address that later, then.

He let Peter's arm drop down to his lap, carrying on with peeling the rest of the suit off Peter's body.

At least the kid was wearing underwear, he thought distantly, as he knelt on the cool tile to remove the leg of the suit more carefully over the sprained and swollen ankle than he did with the other one. Peter was probably self-conscious enough without that added complication.

It was quick work to bind Peter's ribs up and wrap up his ankle, as he was well trained in first aid and the movements came naturally and without thought. It was as he was wrapping the Velcro of the wrist brace around to secure it in place that he finally questioned. "So, how'd the injuries happen?"

Peter looked very tired when he gestured vaguely with the uninjured hand before moving it downward in something of a swooping motion. Bucky stared blankly, trying to figure out what the movements meant but coming up empty.

"You…fell?" he guessed. Peter nodded, and pointed at the ceiling before moving his hand in the downward swooping motion again. It was no clearer this time than it had been last time, and he didn't even have a facial expression to go by, because Peter just looked tired.

"What'd you fall from?" Bucky pressed. "Because these injuries are worse than if you had just tripped."

Peter pointed at the ceiling again, and it took another moment, but it finally clicked and Bucky's eyes widened.

"You fell off a _roof_?" he exclaimed, though really it was just to be certain that his brain wasn't exaggerating what he thought might have happened. And, sure enough, Peter nodded.

"How – what – but your…" Bucky trailed off when his eyes fell on Peter's reddened wrists and arms again, and it clicked. He'd been about to ask how Peter possibly could have fallen off a roof when he had his webs, but that combined with knowing his arms were covered with what looked like a rash, he had a pretty good guess why Peter had fallen.

"Your webs are biological," Bucky realized. "And they're not working anymore."

Peter looked away, not denying it, which may as well have been a big fat 'yes'. Bucky's lips twisted as he pondered what to do, how he could help the kid, and he moved back over to the cabinet under the sink, coming back up with a tube.

"I always use this cream when my shoulder aches or itches," Bucky said, opening the tube and squeezing out some of the cream he'd always thought smelled a bit like strawberries, even though it was advertised as unscented. "Maybe it'll help you a little…"

Peter held out his arm in weary acceptance, and Bucky carefully spread it around, being especially careful with the bumps on his wrists that he'd now figured out were his spinnerets. Jesus, that was weird, that they came out of his _body_. Kinda cool, though. He spread cream on the other wrist, but he didn't remove the brace to get to the spots underneath that could have used the cream. The sprain, he felt, was probably more painful and important at the moment.

Bucky left briefly to fetch a pair of sweatpants and a tee shirt that Peter could more easily get into and sleep in than the other clothes he'd had, and then carried Peter silently to his bedroom, depositing him gently on the bed.

Peter refused the pain medication, and Bucky decided not to push on that one. Besides, he didn't know how truly advanced Peter's metabolism was – he didn't want to do anything that might make him feel worse. Instead, he ceded to Peter's wishes on the matter before telling him to knock on the wall if he needed anything – Bucky's room was just on the other side.

And after that, there was nothing else to do but allow Peter to sleep.

* * *

Peter's sleep was restless. Not only was he in pain from the injuries of the night, but his brain just would not let him go to sleep without turning over, picking at, and extensively pondering the ramifications of Deadpool having…having a _crush _on him.

Really, there was nothing new to think about from earlier that night. Or, morning. But he couldn't just…forget about it. He didn't know what to do about the situation, and that's what was keeping him awake.

He was glad that Bucky hadn't been angry that he'd stayed out so late, though. And he was extraordinarily patient with him while he was getting him back to the Tower and wrapping up his injuries, even when Peter was telling him repeated no's about certain things. Bucky just…did his best to help, and it was a relief to know for sure that he wasn't going to be kicked out for all the trouble he'd caused.

He hadn't even made a big deal about the spinnerets, or about falling off a roof. Oh, Peter could see the concern there. He knew that Bucky didn't like it, felt helpless as to what to do. But he kept that under control and just tried doing his best to get things to help Peter feel better.

And the cream did feel nice on his arms. He wasn't sure exactly what was in the cream, but he knew that it wasn't just a normal moisturizer. And somehow, the medicine in it helped to cool the stinging tugging a bit – even in the arm that hadn't gotten it around that spinneret, though there was admittedly not as much relief for that one as the other one. But Peter was more than willing to take what he could get.

He didn't know what to do about Deadpool, though. He didn't know what he _could _do. Obviously it was his fault for not keeping his distance from the mercenary from the beginning, but as much as he beat himself up for that, there was no going back in time and rewriting history. He had to deal with it now.

But he was sixteen. He had been in exactly one (1) relationship, and that hadn't gone well, at _all_. He hadn't even been through a break-up – she had just…

Anyway. He didn't know how to do this. He wasn't desirable, he knew that. He wasn't used to attention coming his way; he didn't know what to do about it.

He stared up at the ceiling, eyes wide open and refusing sleep. Was he overreacting? Deadpool had never actually…_said _anything about liking him. Maybe he wouldn't, ever. Maybe he would never have to worry about what to say to him, how to let him down gently because he was _still a teenager_. Nothing would ever happen with the other man, because as soon as he found out that Peter was sixteen that would be it. He would understand – he _would_.

Except…that meant that Peter needed to actually _tell _him that he was indeed sixteen. And he didn't know how to do that, not really. He struggled with his anxiety in writing out messages, he had learned early on, and pantomiming an age was more difficult than one would think. Oh, he could point to himself and hold up the necessary fingers, but without talking about age beforehand in the conversation, it was difficult for the other person to know what he was talking about. He had tried it before, and didn't feel like having a repeat experience.

But how could he tell Deadpool that he was just a teenager, without it seeming like he was only telling him because he knew about the man's crush? He didn't want to embarrass the merc, but he also didn't want to seem presumptuous about it, either.

Sure, Wade had never done anything overt to show that he liked Peter, and maybe he never would. He did have self-esteem issues, though – not the least of which included the certainty that there had never been an uglier man (his words, not Peter's). So he probably hadn't told Peter anything or asked him out because he was certain Peter would say no. But that didn't mean that he wouldn't still flirt with him and compliment him and do all he could to make sure Peter was as okay as he could be, with the little bit of personal information that he had on him.

Looking back, now having the proper lenses to see through, Peter knew that Wade had been obvious about it almost from the beginning. But the question was, did he _know _he was being obvious? Was he trying to drop hints? Did he think that Peter's easy acceptance to it was encouragement to keep going? Or worse, did he think that Peter noticed and just didn't care?

Peter blew out a breath of frustration and turned his face into the pillow. He didn't know what to do with this information. He didn't know how to get rid of this guilt he was feeling that he had led Wade on, or that maybe Wade thought Peter just didn't care about him. Were they really even friends? Or had Wade always been angling for a relationship of the _romantic _sort with him? What could Peter really even trust now?

He didn't know what to do or where to start. Sure, he thought Wade was attractive, notwithstanding the awful scarring he had only seen bits and glimpses of. He had a nice body, muscular in all the right places and several inches taller than himself. And more than that, he was kind. Even without the promise of anything more, he tried helping Peter when Peter didn't know the first thing about how to help himself. He was patient with him, filling in the gaps where Peter couldn't speak but always pausing to figure out what Peter's clumsy pantomimes and gestures meant. Even with only one person who could speak, he still had the patience to create a conversation. And he was generous and thoughtful, and Peter thought about how Wade had been looking for – to him – a random homeless kid for an entire week now and was actually stressing out about not being able to find him. Wade wanted to hide his kindness and pretend he was just a heartless merc, but he really wasn't. Peter knew the man cared more than he was willing to admit.

But, even with all of that…Peter didn't think he was attracted _to _Wade. He was just…a good guy. A guy who had to be at least thirty, by Peter's guess.

He wanted Wade to know that he was only saying no because he was a teenager. He didn't want him thinking that he hated Wade, or that he thought he was ugly, or anything else except that it just didn't work that way – not for Peter.

But he didn't have the first clue how to do that without revealing his face to him.

Sighing again, Peter finally closed his eyes, the sandy feeling and the weight of his lids dragging them down. Maybe he would have more ideas when he woke up.

* * *

Tony didn't know how long he had been awake this time. JARVIS had practically given up a while ago at trying to get him to go to bed, though he did make the occasional pointed, snarky comment now and again.

Tony didn't care. He was stuck on this one problem, and he just _wished _that he could figure it out. But this wasn't something that he had an equation for; this wasn't rocket science – ho, no. _That _would be _easy_.

People were so much more difficult. His therapist suggested several times that this was due to how he was raised, with an emotionally absent father and going through school at such a young age that he had never learned how to truly make friends with his peers. They were always so much older than him, and had no interest in making nice with the younger boy, unless it was for his money or his connections. But then after they'd used him enough, they dropped him like last year's fashion magazine.

These weren't real relationships, he knew, and so he only knew how to put on a public persona of what people expected him to be. He'd never had the opportunity to cultivate a relationship at that age when most people did, and it set him back substantially.

He was getting better now, he knew. He'd had Rhodey at MIT, but Rhodey was an oddball like he was so he couldn't really use that as proper data. Pepper he eventually became friends with, but only because she started out as an employee, and _she _was the one who eventually figured out what he was like and worked with it, and they became friends in the process. Same went for Happy, for that matter.

And so his grand total of friendships up until two years ago was three people. And then Loki and the Avengers happened, and then Secretly Hydra In Every Last Department happened, and suddenly there were seven more people who had moved into his Tower and somehow, through stealing food and arguments about movies, they had become his friends.

But he still had to work at it – at normal, human interaction. He didn't always pick up on social cues, subtle or otherwise, and he offended people often enough with his nonexistent social skills that he generally tried keeping to himself. Better an asshole semi-recluse than an asshole in everyone's faces all the time.

This wasn't so possible when living with the others, though. Steve especially was insistent on making everyone there a _family_, and he always gave Tony such a disappointed, sad puppy dog face when Tony made his excuses to miss team dinner or impromptu movie nights. And Clint wasn't much better – his pouty face would not be out of place on a baby, and it made Tony feel guilty when he was on the receiving end of that look, never mind that he recognized that Clint was manipulating him that way on purpose.

So Tony was getting better. He was building a family here, something he had hardly dared to hope for when he had initially invited the rest of them to move in to the Tower after the Battle of New York (as the media called it) had left most of them uncomfortable within SHIELD's walls. Clint had been dealing with his coworkers and former friends skirting around him at the base, and Natasha went where Clint did. Steve had been longing for friendships and connections that he just couldn't get with baby agents and seasoned agents alike gazing upon him as some sort of idol. Bruce was always uncomfortable with any sort of government offshoot, and would have run to some third world country if Tony hadn't brought him in. And Thor…well, Thor didn't really _need _a home and wasn't here all that often anyway, but Tony was already taking in the rest of the set and another person – regardless of the fact that this was a demigod who could rival _Steve_ in the amount he ate – was really no big deal. Thor knew that he had a home here when he wanted, and when he wasn't in London with Jane or on Asgard doing whatever it was that princes did.

And then, when Steve and Natasha had been called in for a three-month assignment in DC and called him up only a month in that they needed help taking down SHIELDra, Tony hadn't been surprised when they had come back with another man who – hey, look at that – could help all of them with psychological issues. That wasn't the reason Tony had fabricated a new floor for him, but dang he came in handy keeping them all calm and talking each of them down from a panic attack within the first few months living there. God bless Sam Wilson.

And then, months after _that_, Bucky Barnes had been readily accepted into their little family, too. Bucky was like that quiet emo kid at the family reunions, whom everyone loved but no one was sure how to talk to except that one cousin who knew the kid _before_ his emo phase and stuck with him through it.

And Tony loved Steve, because he was family now, and so when he had found out what Barnes had done to his parents…well, he would admit that there was some drinking involved after this discovery. But after the hangover had subsided and he had gone on an inventing binge, he had been all for welcoming Steve's family into their family, too. He was disappointed that he couldn't design and decorate a floor all for Bucky, but he had to admit that it made sense for Bucky to be with Steve for now.

So Bucky had slowly but surely began to recover. He was still quiet most of the time, but the cloud of doom and depression hanging over him had slowly begun to lift. And after he'd met that homeless kid, the cloud lifted at an even faster rate. He didn't think it would ever _completely _disappear, but at the very least Barnes already _spoke _more. And that was something big, he knew. He could easily see that this kid – this _Peter_ – was good for him. Maybe even more than Steve was good for him.

And so it was no big thing on his part to welcome Peter into the Tower, too. The kid spoke even less than Bucky – he was _completely _mute – but he had an energy about him that he could see the appeal in Bucky's eyes to take care of the teenager.

(And so what if it was technically illegal to house a minor – clearly a runaway – without informing any of the authorities? Tony has done far worse than _that_ in his time, so if and when people _did _find out, it would be easy enough to throw some money around to get rid of the problem. It wasn't a _bad _illegal thing they were doing – it was helping the kid. As far as he was concerned, this was a _good _way to bribe the authorities spend his money.)

So now there were eight others living there. Or seven and a half, because Thor was only there sometimes. And Tony just kept remembering their discussion about Spiderman, and possible clues to his identity.

The thing was, he was still pretty sure that Spiderman was a teenager, despite Steve's suggestion that it was a teacher. And he was _definitely _sure that Spiderman was _male_, no matter what anyone else said.

And he had looked at the calendar again. Several months ago, Spidey sightings had increased around the same time he had gone silent and his use of webs had decreased drastically. Something had happened in Spiderman's life to cause this change – something _big_, Tony was certain of it.

The most obvious change was, of course, his silence. It was something that bloggers and Tumblr users and random citizens on the news focused on the most. Because before, in the videos Tony could find, Spidey had used his voice and his snark as a weapon. It was a distraction, something to get the villain angry enough to get sloppy, and Tony was equally certain it was a way of calming Spidey's nerves while fighting a monster five times his size.

What could have possibly made the vigilante go silent? Tony was just as clueless as everyone else on that front, and it wasn't a feeling he particularly enjoyed. He was _pretty _sure it wasn't an injury, if only because of the other changes people had noticed in the guy.

But something that Tony was pretty sure only he had noticed up to this point was the _way _that Spiderman fought. Before the change, it had been light, careless almost. Like everything was too easy for him and he was toying with the villain. Now though, there was a rawness to it – a desperation, almost. And he was slower. Not too noticeably, but enough that he seemed to take more hits than he had before. It was like before he had been almost psychic, knowing that things were going to happen before they did, but now it was like he barely noticed and was constantly on the defensive.

Tony didn't know what to make of it. He was pretty sure that if he had had a normal childhood and learned how to interpret people, that his genius intellect would take care of the rest right now and he would have some idea of what had happened to the young vigilante.

But because he didn't know, he was trying to do what he could, because even if the guy wasn't a kid – hey, maybe he'd graduated high school and that's why he was out more now, who knew? – then he still needed help. And Tony had been skeptical, two years ago, when he had begun to get some idea of what they were all trying to achieve, living in the Tower. But they had proved him wrong, and although he was the first to admit that he often butted heads with all of the Avengers (even Brucie bear, though he could never stay upset for long with that adorably ruffled look on his face) he would also be the first to jump in to help them.

And even if it turned out that Spiderman was like Thor, and would only pop in on occasion, Tony wanted to offer that family bond to the red and blue clad vigilante. He was curious who the guy was, sure, but mostly he just wanted to let him know that he had people in his corner, if he wanted it. It was clear that he had some form of anxiety, or PTSD, or _something _that had caused all these changes, and Tony knew that feeling the warmth of family could help, so long as he was willing to accept it.

But all of that was moot until he _found _the Spider-kid, so Tony was doing what he could to figure out what he would need.

It would just take some time.


	12. Chapter 12

**Hello, lovelies! I was just on a roll and have typed out two chapters in just a few days, so I felt confident enough in posting one of 'em a bit early. I hope you like this one - it's a break of fluff after so much angst. It's a tad shorter than normal, but the next one will be longer and just fantastic!**

**Thanks for reading!**

* * *

"No, no – your hand becomes a 'y' _as _you pull it away," Clint instructed. "Use all of your fingers to touch your forehead."

Peter obeyed Clint's instruction, touching the tips of his fingers to his forehead, and then pulling his hand down and away with thumb and pinky extended to form a 'y'.

"Good," Clint praised. "You've got the 'who' 'what' 'when' 'where' 'why' down. Here's 'how' for you…"

Peter paid attention closely as Clint instructed him. He had been learning sign language thanks to Clint for three days now, and he was surprised himself to discover that it didn't give him the same anxiety that the thought of writing things down did. He was also surprised to discover that Clint was partially deaf, and had learned sign language before he had gotten his hearing aids. He hadn't known that a _superhero _could be disabled like that, but it made him feel a bit better that he himself was technically considered disabled, due to his inability to speak. It made him feel less like a freak, and he couldn't help feeling comfortable around Hawkeye because of it.

He had been living at the Tower for a week now. Besides the dinner his first night there, he hadn't really interacted too much with most of the Avengers. He made an effort to appear more on the communal floor, because he didn't want to just be the freaky homeless kid that the two super soldiers had taken in, but thankfully most of them were giving him his space to get more comfortable. They were friendly, but they didn't go out of their way to strike up conversation with him.

Except Clint, of course. Peter was pretty sure that Clint had no boundaries and no concept of personal space, because the very first time he had appeared with the rest of them at breakfast, Clint had come over, bumping his shoulder in a friendly way as he sat down next to him, and offered to teach him sign language while shoveling Fruit Loops into his mouth at an alarming rate that still somehow didn't spill all down his front. And Peter couldn't do anything but nod in acceptance, because sign language _had _to be better than pantomiming everything, and everyone in the Tower apparently knew at least a little bit of sign language to be able to communicate with Clint when he wasn't wearing his hearing aids. Apparently it had also helped them all on missions, and Peter couldn't argue with that.

So now he knew some basic words and phrases, easily remembering them from one day to the next. Before each time they would sit down for Clint to teach him more, he would quiz Peter on everything they had gone over so far. He was pretty sure Clint found his memory impressive, which made a bit of pride swell up in his chest, startling in its suddenness. He hadn't been proud of himself in…way too long. The feeling was almost foreign now.

Peter noticed that Bucky and Steve were trying to brush up on their own sign language too, which warmed something in Peter's chest. He had known that they cared, of course, because why else would they insist on his staying with them in the Tower? But it was still a bit strange to see this evidence of it, that they were trying to learn something so that they were better able to communicate with and understand Peter.

Peter had been uncertain what was going to happen to him as far as healing went after his fall from the roof a week beforehand. His healing had been working slowly because of his bad history of health, only proven by the fact that his webs had been weak and he _had _fallen. He had worried about how to hide the injuries from the others, who would wonder what it was exactly that could have caused the sprains and the cracked ribs. None of the Avengers were stupid, he knew that, and he knew that if even _one _of them noticed his careful movements or the fact that he couldn't walk, all of them would know about it within the hour. And then there would be _questions_.

But Bucky had taken care of it all. Peter wasn't exactly sure what Bucky had told Steve, but he had his suspicions. In any case, Bucky had told him to stay in his room until the braces could come off of his wrist and ankle – the ribs would take more time to heal, but that couldn't be helped. In the meantime, Bucky helped by bringing in food – more than Peter had been eating so far and so delicious he couldn't resist eating all that Bucky had set out. Most of what he brought was soup, hearty and full of meat, but once he also brought a delicious pasta that Peter couldn't remember the name of but would have married if it was a person. He had thought at first that Bucky had ordered in before dishing it up and bringing it in to him, but when Peter had made a few offhand gestures to question about it, Bucky had bashfully told him that he liked cooking and trying new recipes. Peter was only more willing to eat what he'd brought then, something he hadn't thought was possible.

And Peter didn't know how Bucky had guessed that the increased calories would help him heal faster, but he was grateful that he did. He couldn't feel guilty for eating so much when it was so clear that there was more than enough food for all three people with enhanced metabolisms living on the floor. Especially when he knew Steve ate more than he did. Peter only needed about 5,000 calories a day – ha, "only" – but Bucky had mentioned offhand one of the times he came in with a chicken gnocchi soup that he needed 6,000 and Steve needed 8,000. Peter could hardly imagine eating that often and that much.

Bucky didn't know exactly how many calories Peter needed every day, but he noticed how each day Bucky made more and more food for him, so that by the third day living there he was up to about the needed 5,000. Steve, the poor soul, was probably wondering why Bucky was eating so much when he disappeared into Peter's room.

Steve never came into Peter's room while he was hiding out there, and Peter was unsure how he felt about that. He had JARVIS – who apparently knew he was Spiderman, but he'd agreed to keep his identity a secret, so he wasn't too worried – who told him when Steve was leaving for a bit so that Peter could come out of his room. When Steve was coming back, JARVIS always alerted him so that he could return to his room, where Steve couldn't see the obvious injuries.

It made Peter feel a bit strange, and a bit guilty, to literally be hiding from the other man he was living with. It felt like he was doing something wrong, and that was without adding in that extra little gem that this was _Captain America _that he was lying to and hiding from.

But he didn't know what else to do. Sure, this was Captain America himself, and if Peter couldn't trust him then who _could _he trust? But he was also the leader of the Avengers, and surely he would feel the need to share his identity with the rest of the team. For the sake of team relationships, if nothing else. And Peter didn't know that he trusted everyone _else _on the team. What would they say, upon finding out that Peter was Spiderman? Not just a homeless dude, and not just a vigilante whom the cops were always chasing after, but a _teenager_? What stance would they take? Would they be as okay with it as Bucky was?

Peter didn't know, and so he kept his mouth shut about it (ha) and continued to avoid Steve until the sprains were able to heal enough that the braces could come off and he could move somewhat normally once again.

And by the time he woke up on the fourth day since he'd taken his tumble, he was feeling much better and had the courage to go to the communal floor for breakfast with everyone else, which is where Clint had basically assaulted him within the first minute of being there.

But he was okay with it. He liked Clint, and he liked that Clint didn't judge him for his silence, and that Clint just wanted to be his friend.

Dangerous word, that, he reflected, but pushed the thought quickly from his mind whenever he felt himself begin to panic at the idea of adding another friend to his very short list.

Steve didn't treat him any differently when Peter resurfaced, thankfully, though Peter did catch him looking at him with concern whenever he thought Peter wasn't looking. It was a bit strange, because it was the same look he gave Bucky when Bucky was having a hard time. But Peter wasn't Steve's best friend, so he couldn't understand it. Bucky just told him that ignoring it was the only way to stay sane. If he started acknowledging the looks, Steve would apparently take that as invitation to express earnestly how he was there for him, how maybe seeing a therapist would help, wonder if there was anything he specifically could do to make things easier for him, blah blah blah. It was apparently how Bucky had begun going to therapy, to get Steve to shut up about it, but it didn't stop the looks or the other topics. But Bucky said fondly how that was just Steve, that if Steve wasn't doing something he felt useless, and when he felt useless he worried. He was the biggest mother hen they all knew.

So it made Peter a bit uneasy, but he pushed it away and paid attention to everything else that was new where he now lived.

Peter was pulled from his straying thoughts by the arrival of Tony Stark coming off of the elevator. The man stumbled in blearily, not acknowledging any of them in the room as he made a beeline for the coffee pot. His movements were mechanical, automatic as he put in a filter and dumped the grounds in before closing the lid and pressing a few buttons to get it started.

Peter watched him in bemusement as he leaned against the counter, dressed in nothing but stained sweats and a dirty wife beater. His hair was in disarray and his beard was wild, and Peter felt like laughing a bit hysterically because he had never thought he was see the billionaire so…_not _put together.

He hadn't seen him since the team dinner a week beforehand, but in Clint's chattering away he had mentioned how Stark did that sometimes, disappearing for days at a time before resurfacing when the coffee in his workshop ran out, and when he reappeared one of the others would force him into bed because he would hardly do so himself. Peter supposed the coffee must have run out now, and the genius certainly did look like he needed more sleep, not more coffee.

"Have you improved the world as we know it in the last week again, Tony?" Steve teased from his spot in the chair by the window. Peter had almost forgotten he was there, and had been for the past half hour, drawing in one of his sketchbooks. (And Peter remembered from school how Steve Rogers liked to draw, but he had never thought that it would be as much as he did now. He had thought that was mostly just one of the few things people knew about him and blew it out of proportion. But it looks like they hadn't, from what Peter had seen the past few days.)

"Ughhh," Stark mumbled, leaning more heavily against the counter and not looking their way, never mind answering Steve's question.

Clint figured out that Peter wasn't paying too much attention anymore and turned around on the couch and angling his body toward the kitchen to join in on the conversation.

"Come on, _no _improvements?" he goaded. "I could've sworn you privatized world peace once upon a time – where's _that _kind of thinking?"

Stark didn't answer as he grabbed a mug from the cupboard and poured his coffee into it, taking a long gulp that made Peter wince at how hot it must have been. Stark didn't seem to notice though as he took the pot and refilled the mug before ambling his way over and plopping heavily down onto the chair beside Clint.

"I have been _slaving away _with JARVIS," Stark groaned, clutching his mug to his chest like a lifeline. Or like a teddy bear. Peter couldn't decide. "We have been _trying _to find the Spider-kid, and there is absolutely _nothing_."

Peter straightened, blinking at Stark and suddenly _very _interested in what he had to say as he figured out that the billionaire looked like this because he had been looking for…well, for him. His heart began to race, because hell, Stark was a genius, and he _had _to be able to find out Spiderman's identity…

But he had said there was nothing, Peter's brain suddenly caught up to him. There had been nothing, and Peter could only think that it must have been JARVIS doing his work and keeping his promise to keep it a secret even from his creator. Peter sent a mental thanks to the AI, and wondered if maybe it was telepathic, because he had seen crazier things and that AI was smart enough that he would honestly believe it if someone told him it was true.

"Come on, Tony," Steve sighed, "You can't do this to yourself because you're curious. You need sleep just like every other human."

"Bold of you to assume that I'm human," Tony muttered. "And it's not just 'cause I'm _curious_. This kid needs _help_, whoever he is."

"I thought we'd decided it wasn't a kid?" Steve said archly, raising an eyebrow.

"That's what _you _decided," Stark grumbled into his mug. A moment later, he seemed to remember something, and his head jerked up to look at Peter. The man stared at him a bit stupidly for a moment, before he blinked and said, "You've been here for an entire fucking week."

"Language!" Clint gasped, pressing a hand to his chest like he was clutching his pearls.

Steve sighed and rolled his eyes. "When will you let that go?" he protested half-heartedly.

"Never," Clint declared. "You're a walking meme, Rogers. Own it."

"You still haven't told me what you want for your room!" Stark explained himself in a whining voice before Peter could freak out that maybe the billionaire didn't want him to live there for that long. "This is unacceptable, Peter! – shit, I need to know your last name so I can scold you properly."

Before Peter could make too much sense of that, Clint said dryly, "And when, exactly, was Peter supposed to approach you about room design? You've been holed up in your lab the whole time."

"Do _not _try and use logic on me this early in the morning, Barton," Tony said sharply, pointing at the archer accusingly. "Not here, in my own goddamn house!"

Clint rolled his eyes and signed something to Peter, which he belatedly realized meant "moron". Before learning the alphabet, Clint had been sure to teach him as many derogatory insults he could think of, including the ones with swear words. It had been what finally cemented for Peter that he liked the guy, because he wasn't treating him like a child and trying to shield him from bad language.

"I need to learn that shit," Stark muttered to himself, but Peter's hearing picked it up anyway. Then Stark looked up at him and pinned him with his gaze, still eerily sharp even with the fog of fatigue trying to pull him under. "So, what do you like? Colors? Posters? Give me something to work with, here!"

Peter pondered the question for a moment, before he glanced at Clint and began spelling out a singular word with one hand.

_S-C-I-E-N-C-E_

Clint gaped at him for a moment, and a smile tugged at Peter's lips at the utterly shocked, almost betrayed look on the older man's face.

"Well?" Stark prodded. "What'd he say?"

"He said 'science'," Steve answered in an amused voice when Clint seemed incapable of speaking. Stark turned delighted eyes to Peter.

"Science?" he crowed, letting out something of a wiggle as though he couldn't contain the sudden energy in his body, and therefore jostling his mug in excitement, though no coffee spilled out. Peter guessed that was one of Stark's superpowers, and then had to laugh at his own thought. "What kind of science? Physics? Chemistry? Biology? Geology? Meteorology? Don't tell me it's botany or zoology that tickles your fancy Peter, because then I may have to kick you out on your ass."

Peter was amused as well as a bit confused and caught off guard by the excitement in the billionaire's voice – an excitement that was almost childish. Sure, he liked science, and sure he _idolized _Tony Stark and Bruce Banner from the time he could understand who they were, but he honestly hadn't expected either of them to be this honestly excited that he liked science, too. Never meet your heroes, as the saying went, because they would inevitably disappoint you. He had expected them to be dismissive and maybe even condescending, assuming that he liked science as, like…his favorite subject in school, or something. Not something he would do in his spare time and therefore something he genuinely knew quite a bit about. He had thought the most he could hope for would be being humored, but not this. Not this veritable stranger being excited at the possibility of more.

He took a moment to process this, readjusting his viewpoint and expectations, before he spelled out _C-H-E-M-I-S-T-R-Y A-N-D P-H-Y-S-I-C-S M-O-S-T-L-Y_.

Leaning more toward chemistry, but he had developed a new appreciation for physics when he had to figure out proper angles for leaping and web-slinging and other things he had to know as Spiderman. But he had _always _liked chemistry, figuring out different mixtures and what chemicals did what when they were mixed together.

Hm, that gave him an idea…

Before the idea could fully form into a plan, Stark was cheering in excitement and then saying, "_That_ is the kind of thing I like to hear! So, you like creating new things or learning new things? Or both, they're not exclusive to each other. What's your fav…"

"I feel so _betrayed_!" Clint burst out dramatically, cutting Stark off mid-word and throwing himself against the armrest of the couch, clutching his chest like he'd been shot. "Peter, we were supposed to be cool video game buddies! Mario Kart! What _happened _to you?! Are you actually an alien in disguise?!"

Peter laughed, the sound coming out as a huff of breath, because he could see that Clint was exaggerating for effect and Stark looked hilariously affronted at the interruption. He had yet to actually play any video games, but he had seen Clint a few times battling it out with Sam and swearing at the TV, so he knew Clint loved Mario Kart most of all and had made some hints at playing against Peter. Thus far though, Peter had been too nervous to accept what was on offer, and just watched sometimes from the distance of the dining table. But Clint had probably figured out that one day Peter would be more comfortable and accept, and now thought his hopes were dashed.

"_Science_," Clint moaned. "There's too many of you _science _people in this Tower. Why isn't anyone _normal_?"

"Birdbrain, your weapon of choice is a bow and arrow and your favorite color is _purple_," Stark pointed out mercilessly. "_You _are the one not normal here."

Clint flipped the billionaire off with both hands, remaining in his draped position over the arm of the couch.

Peter just huffed a breath of amusement once again, feeling something warm in his chest at the playfully serious bickering about him. It was kinda cool to know that the two Avengers were fighting over him like a coveted toy. Weird, but cool.

"We've _gotta _get you down to the shop," Tony said excitedly, brushing past Clint's whining with practiced ease. "And Brucie! He likes all the chemistry and biology stuff. Are you any good at engineering?"

"Later, Tony," Steve said in a tone that left no room for argument.

Tony did anyway, though, because he was Tony Stark and he does what he wants, and interrupted before Steve could explain. "Later is too far away, Cap! There are things to invent, things to discover, laws to be broken! Laws of science, anyway – not federal laws; stop looking at me like that! It was just one time, and Pepper cleared it up within the day!"

"Tony, you haven't eaten real food in a week and haven't slept in what I'm sure are days," Steve pointed out, refusing to be deterred by Tony's arguing because he was stubborn like that. "You can't function like this." Then he stopped, realizing what he said, and Peter was confused when he saw the pained expression that crossed Steve's face, wince clearly evident in the ticking of his eyebrows and the way his jaw tightened.

Peter understood why a moment later when Tony came back with, "Don't tell me what I can and can't do! I can do anything – I'm Tony Fucking Stark! And if I say I can last longer in the shop, I can!" His tone was daring, not quite angry but ready to get there at another negative word or command from Steve.

Peter decided to take that as his opportunity to jump in and try to defuse the situation, despite the way it made his heart beat a bit faster in nervousness at getting between the two superheroes.

He waved his hands at Tony, grateful that Steve didn't say anything, allowing Peter to take the reins. He pointed to Clint, who had sat up at some point in the back and forth and had a very _done _expression on his face. Then Peter curled his hands, keeping them close together but not touching, miming the position of holding a game controller before patting his own chest. He pointed at Tony and then put his palms together and put them on the side of his head in a universal gesture for sleep. He then tapped his wrist where a watch would normally be, and then held up his hands, all fingers outspread.

"He'll play video games with me while you sleep," Clint translated in an almost bored tone before anyone could try guessing what Peter meant. Peter beamed, grateful for the easy translation, before clarifying by holding up ten fingers again and pointing at his watch.

"Ten…hours?" Steve was the one to guess.

"You want me to sleep for _ten hours_?!" Tony demanded in a betrayed voice. Peter was nervous, but he hoped it didn't show, and nodded quite firmly. Sleep was important. It built up strength as much as food did, he knew. It's why he slept more when he was homeless – it could help stave off the need for more food, sometimes. "I haven't slept for ten hours since I was a baby!"

"Dude, you slept for sixteen hours a couple of months ago," Clint said, giving Tony a strange look.

"I was drugged!" Tony protested.

"Well, no drugs this time," Clint said with a shrug. "I'm sure JARVIS will play you a nice lullaby, though."

Tony muttered something under his breath that even Peter with his super hearing couldn't quite catch, before sighing dramatically and rising to his feet.

"You all are ganging up on me," he declared in an affronted voice with the expression to match. "So I suppose I have no other options." He looked at Peter and glared, but Peter saw the humor in his eyes and found himself relaxing at the evidence that the man wasn't _truly _upset.

"You're a little _shit_, Pete," he declared. "I'm keeping my eye on you. Don't think you can just bat those Bambi eyes at me and win every time."

"Isn't that what just happened?" Clint pointed out humorously while Peter blinked at the 'Bambi eyes' comment in surprise. He'd thought he had just normal eyes, but 'Bambi eyes' implied he was adorable. He wasn't sure how to feel about it, because he was sixteen, dammit, but they weren't treating him like a kid, exactly. So maybe he could just let the comparison slide.

Tony simply flipped Clint off in response to his comment, but he was already swaying his way toward the elevator, and Peter felt amused at the further evidence of the man's lack of sleep catching up to him.

After Tony had left, Clint turned eyes filled with unholy glee on Peter.

"Come on!" he cheered. "Mario Kart!"

Peter sighed to himself and accepted the controller from wherever Clint had magically pulled it from. He looked over at Steve, waving the controller at him in a wordless invitation that he play, too.

"That's alright, Pete," Steve said with a little smile, remaining in his chair and turning back to his sketchbook again. "I'll just stay and watch."

Peter looked at him with eyes narrowed in suspicion, and then looked over at Clint, who just gave him the most long-suffering look Peter had ever seen.

"Cap doesn't care for video games," he complained as Mario Kart started up on the TV screen. "Says they don't hold his attention because they're so repetitive."

Peter turned his narrowed gaze back to Steve, who was drawing calmly and not giving heed to Clint's judgment. Peter smirked as Steve glanced up at the quiet, before signing deliberately to Clint but keeping his eyes on Steve –

_I-T-S B-E-C-A-U-S-E H-E C-A-N-T_

Clint howled with laughter beside him, while Steve looked initially surprised at the trash talk before resolve settled on his features and he deliberately closed his sketchbook and set his pencils aside. Peter laughed silently to himself, because his guess that telling Steve he couldn't do something would be taken as a dare by the good Captain was proven absolutely correct, and Clint knew it too.

"Well, if that's the way you want to play it," Steve said, amusement as well as determination shining in his eyes as he moved to sit in the last spot on the couch, snatching up another controller. "Prepare to get _destroyed_."


	13. Chapter 13

Peter was more excited than he could adequately express. This was a thing that he had always _dreamed _of, working in Stark Industries and putting his name on some of the things that were produced and went out to people. He had dreamed of inventing things and bettering things that were already there from the time he could understand that it was an option. He'd obsessed over every new scientific journal, seeing others' advancements and dreaming of the day that it would be _his _name, _his _picture next to an article that other advanced scientists could ponder and better and work from.

But, even in all of his imaginings – even the ones where he thought he could one day meet world-renowned scientists like Tony Stark and Bruce Banner thanks to some development he had helped move forward – he had never imagined that he would be in Tony Stark's _personal lab_, bobbing his head along to eighties rock music and scribbling notes and trying things out with Tony Stark Himself doing the same thing over at his desk.

Peter was definitely fangirling over here.

This was a time when he was grateful almost that he couldn't speak, because if he could he would be unable to stop himself from babbling out praise and ideas and generally acting like the idiot he knew he was. Of course, it probably didn't matter much anyway, because his facial expression gave away all the excitement that he just couldn't contain. He knew, because Tony Freaking Stark kept glancing over at him and laughing quietly to himself, and it wasn't because he thought his ideas were stupid, because Peter would be able to tell. It was almost…_fond_, the laughter. And he just couldn't bring himself to care that Tony Freaking Stark was laughing at him because he thought he was adorable. It was Tony Stark!

And, Stark had promised when he had first shown up after his "nap", once Bruce Banner – Bruce Freaking Banner! – was more awake too, _all _of them could go to work in the chem lab. Peter thought he might explode with excitement at the very idea, so it was a good thing it was just Tony Stark at the moment.

Ha. "Just" Tony Stark, as though Tony Stark could ever be "just" anything.

And Tony Stark's lab was even more amazing than he had thought it would be. When he had first been ushered in by the genius billionaire, he'd been shown around and told what each of the machines were that were scattered about the room. Peter had never seen a fabricator in real life, but he immediately put it on his Wish List For When He's Rich. And that was before he had been introduced to the bots.

Peter had heard Tony using the words "dummy" and "butterfingers" before, but he had thought that they were just the insults that Tony had decided to use, not actual references to what basically amounted to his children.

Because Peter could clearly see the love Tony had for his robots as he introduced them to Peter, hidden under snarks and insults to the bots' intelligence. Tony had called them "glorified dogs" when the one called Dummy brought a tennis ball to Peter and carefully set it in his hand before beeping so that Peter would throw it. The one called Butterfingers followed Tony around like a puppy – or maybe like an imprinted duckling – but although Tony scolded it and made disparaging remarks about how he'd donate it to the nearest community college, Peter noticed that he never actually told it to go away, simply accepting the quirk and the hovering for as long as Butterfingers was interested. Butterfingers knew it too, because it kept on as it was before eventually getting distracted with a spoon somehow found in the toolbox. You was more laid back than the other two, and if Peter had thought that robots couldn't have personalities, he would have been proven wrong with the evidence right in front of him of the three very different robots and their interactions.

After a little bit, Tony even seemed to relax upon seeing Peter's positive interaction with his bots, and Peter realized belatedly that he had passed some sort of test, though he wasn't sure what on. Maybe it was that he treated them like they were actually alive? That idea made more sense the more Peter thought about it, because Tony clearly loved them and would want other people he let into his lab to love them too.

And it was amazing work, especially when Tony told him that he had built them before he was twenty-five, and they all had their AI personalities wired into them. It was not only the young age at which Tony built them that was amazing, but that at that age, with technology where it had been at the time, he had come up with so many rules and ideas to follow all on his own without input from others.

Peter maybe wanted to worship him, just a little.

And then, after the "nickel and dime tour", Tony had directed him to his own little desk on one side of the room, and told him to go crazy. Peter had been completely unable to even pretend hesitation or bashfulness, and had immediately taken the notebook and pencil sitting there to sketch out his own ideas before getting into the labor aspect of it.

Peter wasn't wholly certain what it was that Tony was doing exactly over on his side of the lab, but when he glanced up a couple of times to the holo screens, there were bits of Iron Man armor on display. Peter wondered what Tony could _possibly _do to improve something as amazing as the Iron Man armor already was, but he supposed that's why Tony was the one people called a genius. He must have _lots _of ideas for improvement.

Peter had his own ideas, too. Not for Iron Man, but for Spiderman. The idea had come to him when they had been talking in the communal living room about what kind of science he liked. And it was perfect, that he could work in this lab meant more for engineering, before he went to the chemistry lab later on, because he would need both sides of the equation to get his idea to work.

He was glad that he knew that JARVIS knew about Spiderman now, because it left him comfortable not having to hide his sketches from the ever-present AI. He had to turn a page when Tony got closer, so that the genius would only see the idea for a mini robot he could fit in his pocket, but Tony only came over a couple of times so Peter wasn't concerned.

He had to work back and forth between the bot and his new idea once he got to shaping the metal and fitting pieces together, but he was _pretty _sure he was successful in keeping his more important idea under wraps.

Because the idea he'd had, when thinking about physics and chemistry and all the things he had experimented with before, had been the possibility that maybe he could _make _webs. Out of chemicals, that is. Because he couldn't count on being healthy anymore (though his arms _were _doing better with the constant food and application of cream Bucky had given him more than a week before) to be able to use his own organic webs as Spiderman. And he thought it would probably be a good idea to have some kind of backup.

And so, hence the desire to make some devices that he could clip to his wrists while he had access to the materials needed to make them, and make them well.

He didn't assemble everything, of course. He didn't know what the composition of the chemically-made webs would be, or how they would turn out, and he needed to factor those calculations in before he could determine the web shooters a success.

But he was pretty proud of himself for what he _did _accomplish.

Another great thing about going into that haze of science that he loved so much and hadn't felt in _months_ was that it kept him from thinking about other, less happy things. He didn't have to think about Deadpool and what he might tell him or how to deal with any of that. He didn't have to think about his past, with Uncle Ben and Gwen and Aunt May and every other person he'd let die in the past couple of years. He didn't even have to think about how he couldn't speak, because science dominated his thoughts and any stray thought was blocked by the eighties music blasting through the workshop.

It was the first time he'd felt really _good _about where he was, because he was feeling hopeful about his future for once, like he actually had something to look forward to.

He cautioned himself against feeling it too much, at basking in the feeling, because he knew it could just as easily be ripped out from under him as it had when he had first become Spiderman. But he couldn't help enjoying the feeling, just a little, while he could.

He hadn't even noticed the passage of time while in the workshop, but he was startled out of his science haze when the music dropped and he was pulled back to the present to see Bucky entering the workshop with a longsuffering expression on his face.

"JARVIS!" Tony whined, before he noticed that Bucky had come in and blinked, like he himself was coming back to the present as Peter was. He shook himself before directing at Bucky, "What's up, Olaf?"

"You need to eat," Bucky said, coming over to stand beside Peter and giving him a scrutinizing look that at first Peter didn't understand. "It is three o' clock in the afternoon."

Peter blinked, suddenly realizing that he was, in fact, hungry. They had been in the workshop for several hours now, having come down right after being rushed through breakfast due to both his and Tony's excitement to be down here. He was surprised that he hadn't noticed the hunger – but then again, he was fairly used to hunger and a couple of weeks in the Tower wasn't going to change that. Not yet. His body was still used to less food and was less prone to warning him when he was beginning to run low on energy.

"You're right!" Tony exclaimed, waving away the schematics blown up on the holo screens with a single gesture. "Dammit, I need to be more responsible with a teenager present. JARVIS, make that a protocol. Turn it all off when Peter is here if it's time for him to eat."

"Of course, Sir," JARVIS intoned, sounding very pleased.

Peter wasn't sure whether to feel embarrassed, annoyed, or touched that Tony was going through this trouble, so he decided to just shrug it all away like it was nothing. It was happening, and there wasn't anything he could do about it, so he may as well accept it and move on.

"I made lasagna," Bucky offered, looking at Peter but clearly making the offer to Tony as well with how his body language was opened to them both.

"_Yes_!" Tony cheered, rising to his feet. He directed his next words to Peter, "Bucky Bear here makes the _best _lasagna, and as the resident Italian in this Tower, my words on this of course matter the most." He looked back at Bucky, who looked faintly amused. "Did you make breadsticks?" He practically demanded.

"Who do you take me for?" Bucky said dryly. "Of course I did."

Tony cheered and made a beeline for the doors. "Hurry up, hurry up!" he urged, bouncing like a child that had to pee. Peter snatched up his notebook so that he wouldn't forget it and followed the billionaire out the glass doors.

"Don't be fooled," Bucky stage whispered to Peter as they got onto the elevator that JARVIS had helpfully opened before they got there. "He's only half Italian."

"That's more than you'll ever have!" Tony retorted without heat.

Peter grinned, suddenly very happy, and patted his chest before spelling out _A-U-N-T W-A-S I-T-A-L-I-A-N_.

"Blood related?" Tony asked excitedly. Peter shook his head, but kept smiling, because Aunt May had always bemoaned her lack of cooking skills so that she could make Peter a _true _Italian-style lasagna like her parents used to make. Having been raised by her, he would consider himself at least part Italian, despite having no actual Italian blood.

_S-H-E R-A-I-S-E-D M-E. _Peter spelled out as explanation for his volunteering of this particular bit of information when she wasn't actually blood related and as such he wasn't technically Italian.

"That makes you at least _part _Italian," Tony declared as the elevator doors opened to the communal floor.

Peter was startled to see all of the rest of them on the floor, seemingly arguing amongst themselves. Peter looked to see that the TV was off, so it couldn't have been an argument about video games and cheating again (Clint had been very competitive with Steve the day before, and Steve had wasted no time in shooting insults right back at him as he maneuvered his cart around the track on Mario Kart).

Natasha was the first one to notice their arrival, and gave them a small nod of acknowledgement while in front of her, with their backs turned to the elevator, Sam and Clint and even the mild-mannered _Bruce _were arguing heatedly. Steve was in the kitchen, standing in front of the stove with folded arms, glaring at the others and looking very _huge_.

"Of _course _it's for all of us!" Clint exclaimed, glaring at Sam and at Bruce and then at Steve, over in the kitchen. "Why would Barnes make just one dish of lasagna – give me _one _good reason!"

"Because Barnes wants to make sure _Peter_ eats enough," Bruce said before Clint could even finish his sentence. "That dish is not the normal-sized dish we go for when feeding _all _of us."

"But it's _lasagna_!" Clint practically wailed. "Barnes may be cruel, but he wouldn't go through the effort of making _lasagna_,_ just_ for Peter! What about the _rest_ of us starving children?!"

"You're definitely a child, that's for sure," Sam shot back.

Peter blinked in astonishment as they continued to argue – about…about _lasagna_. He never would have expected the Avengers to be so – so – _immature_. Now Steve's stance in the kitchen made sense, as he was clearly standing guard over the lasagna so that Clint couldn't get to it, while the others tried talking him down and talking some sense into him.

"Barton," Bucky growled from beside Peter as they walked further into the room, making their appearance known to the rest of them. "If you have done so much as _swipe your finger through the sauce_ on Peter's lasagna, I will go _Winter Soldier on your ass_."

It was amazing how quickly they all fell silent at the threat, staring uncertainly and – and _warily_, at Bucky. Natasha remained cool as a cucumber, but Steve dropped his arms from where they were folded and the other three men in their little circle of arguments tensed even as their faces dropped. Even Tony stopped his ever-present fidgeting from where he was standing just behind Bucky.

It was too much. It was hilarious, the fact that the Avengers were arguing about this famed lasagna, and that Bucky was so protective over it – over _Peter _– that he was actually making a half-joke, half-threat in behalf of Peter and the lasagna he had apparently made just for him.

He let out a snort of laughter, causing everyone's gazes to snap to him in surprise at the first sound they'd ever heard him make. And then it was like the floodgates had been opened, and he found himself laughing – actually, really laughing out loud, with his vocal chords and his entire body. He clutched his stomach and bent over slightly, remembering everyone's stunned faces at Bucky's threat, at the reference that Bucky was comfortable enough making to his time as Hydra's assassin, at the proof that no matter how badass the Avengers were, they still had heated, petty arguments that could rival any child's.

In moments, the rest of them were laughing too – even Natasha, who hardly ever showed her feelings to such a degree but now did so along with everyone else. Some of it was laughter at the realization that they were arguing about something so trivial, some of it was just relief at the break of tension in the room, and some of it was just because the laughter was contagious. Whatever the reason though, no one was left out of the hilarity.

Bucky was carefully holding on to his scowl, though his eyes twinkled with mirth even as he grumbled his way into the kitchen.

"There's a separate dish for the rest o' you," Bucky called out grumpily as the laughter began to quiet. "I'm not an _idiot_ – of _course _I made enough for everyone. The smaller one's for Peter."

This set off another round of laughter, more subdued but no less real. Peter only smiled, his own laughter having died down sooner than everyone else's when his brain caught up that he was _using his vocal chords_, but he didn't allow the panic to creep in, smothering it with replayed memories of the looks on everyone's faces. He huffed another breath of laughter and went to help Bucky separate the breadsticks from where they had stuck together in the oven.

* * *

Peter was nervous.

It had been three weeks since he had started living at the Tower, and they were a pretty wonderful three weeks. Barring the time he'd fallen off the roof and had to hide out for a few days while he healed, that is. But he decided not to count those days, because even then he had spent a lot of time with Bucky and that had been pretty fun. Not just listening to stories Bucky could tell about he and Steve, but just being _with_ the older man had been a bit of a balm to his soul that made him feel more hopeful about going forward.

And then, with Clint teaching him sign language, and the rest of them working to pick it up too so that they didn't always have to rely on JARVIS to translate – well, that had been pretty sweet. He was still learning every day, excited that he might be able to communicate with the rest of them when he wanted and needed to, without having to pantomime what he wanted to say every time. After a while, that really got old when the other person wasn't that great at guessing.

But hey, at least he was good at charades now, if he ever played that again.

And, working in the workshops was _cool_. Inventing side by side with Tony Stark Himself would never get old, he was certain of it. And then, when he had been able to go in and work with Bruce Banner, _too_? He about squeed with excitement and joy.

Bruce was even cooler than he had thought, which until a week ago Peter had not thought possible. But Bruce had a kind of quiet calm to him, and he was always willing to help and give direction when Peter had a question. It was cool, being near him, because it made the hairs on Peter's arms stand on end, but in the best way, like lightning had just struck nearby and he was waiting for a torrential downpour. It wasn't quite his Spidey sense warning him, but he was pretty sure that he got that feeling from Bruce _because of _his Spidey powers.

And when Tony and Bruce were both in the lab _together_? Peter felt woefully unlearned as they bounced ideas off of each other, one of them not even finishing a sentence before the other was answering it and offering up their own solutions. It made Peter feel small, but in a good way, like he had so much to learn and live up to and he was just excited for that process where he would be _able _to learn all the things he needed to. For so long, he had thought that that part of his life, where he could learn more from someone else, was over. He had dropped out of high school when he ran away, and because of that and lack of money, he had determined that going to college was nothing more than a pipe dream. And without college and the kind of schooling and learning he would receive there, how would he _ever _be hired at a tech company like Stark Industries, let alone, be able to open his own company one day?

But now, although he wasn't in school and he wasn't sure what to do on that front, considering the fact that he was still technically a runaway and he's pretty sure his living here without the government's knowledge was all kinds of illegal, he was still in a setting where he _could _learn, from two of the best minds of the _century_. And even if he never got anywhere with that, he was content with what he had. And, who knew? Maybe, he could prove himself to Tony now, and in a few years, he could be hired to the R&D department anyway.

Well, probably not, he reconsidered. SI policy said that people working there needed to have at least a Bachelor's degree; or for part-time employees, they had to be in school while working there with a degree as a future goal. Tony wasn't going to bend a few rules just for him, no matter _how _much he proved himself during whatever time he lived here.

It was a nice thought, anyway, he reflected as he mercilessly squashed down the hope that would only see failure and sadness in the end. He would take what he could while he had it, and no more.

He had finished his web formula within the first day of working in the lab with Bruce. That had been fairly simple, as he just asked JARVIS to analyze some of the organic webs from his own wrists and tell him what it was made of. He had found chemicals, and upon reflection to many library books over the years, had worked with different ratios of a few different formulas to be able to find something most like his own webs when they were at their strongest. He hadn't gotten it right on the first try or even the tenth, but eventually he was pretty sure he had a workable variation. He would have to test it in actual practice later on, but he was feeling pretty good about it and didn't think he would have to make many changes to it, if indeed there were any.

Bruce had been cool about it, too, glancing up at him once or twice as he poured substances into beakers and occasionally huffed in frustration at a failed formula, but otherwise leaving him to it. He must have thought that Peter was just playing around and experimenting, but otherwise didn't care exactly what it was Peter was trying to do. Not in a bad way – Peter knew that Bruce would help if he indicated that he wanted it – but in a way that just reflected understanding on Bruce's part for the scientific process. Peter was glad that Bruce hadn't asked, because he wasn't sure what he would say. So, he just let the other scientist assume that he was just messing around.

The next day, upon returning to Tony's lab, he had worked to finish his web shooters enough that he would be able to take them out for a spin. The cartridges had taken longer than anything to work out, because he had to figure out how to put the web fluid in them while it was still fluid, and make sure that they didn't solidify into webs before it was triggered to exit out the mechanical spinnerets. He had a couple of mishaps with the force with which the fluid exited, as well as how much came out at once to be sure enough was coming out to hold his weight, but not so much that it wasn't stretchy, but he was able to figure out those problems fairly quickly.

What _really _made his heart rate jump was when Tony appeared behind him, and Peter's Spidey sense didn't alert him to his presence, and so he didn't know the man was there until he spoke.

"Are those _webs_?" the interest in his voice was clear as day, and Peter really didn't know how to respond to the direct question, so he just nodded his head, wondering what Tony's opinion on this would be.

"What're they for?" Tony asked with clear interest, leaning over his shoulder to watch as Peter twisted the last screw into place to make a pocket for the cartridge to be inserted.

Peter looked at him in hesitation, but he could see nothing but curiosity in the billionaire's expression, not suspicion like he might have guessed. He shrugged, not giving a clear answer, because he didn't really know what to say.

"Come on," Tony wheedled, coming around to stand beside him so he could better look at Peter and not just his invention. "You must have _some_ idea what to do with all this. Look, you even made watches for it!"

Peter resisted the urge to roll his eyes, because he was pretty sure they _both _knew that these weren't just _watches_, and Tony was just playing dumb to get Peter to explain his idea.

Sensing that Tony wasn't going to let it go, and suspecting that Tony was not above grabbing a "watch" and trying it out himself, he decided to save them all the pain and attached one of the web shooters on his own wrist.

Looking around, he spotted a clear bit of wall next to the door to the workshop, and pointed the end of the web shooter at it. He hoped he'd gotten the calculations right…

He depressed the button that sat in the palm of his hand, and when the web shot out of the mechanical spinneret, he knew immediately that he'd gotten it right, that it would work how he wanted.

But, he also needed to show that he wasn't used to the kind of movement required to swing around on webs, so he allowed the force of the shot to yank his arm forward as it attached to the wall, sending him stumbling out of his seat. He would have allowed himself to fall completely – for the effect, of course – if it weren't for Tony's hands reaching out to lift him back up before he could crash to his knees.

"Whoa!" Tony's voice had a vague hint of alarm but was mostly covered by amazement. "That's _amazing_, Pete. Looks like it needs some work though, before it rips your arm clean off."

Peter smiled sheepishly, but inside he was cheering at his successful creation as he jerked his arm so that the web was sliced by the little razor underneath the mechanics and he was freed from the wall. A moment later his heart started pounding again when Tony gave him a shrewd, mildly teasing look.

"So, you're a fan of Spiderman, huh?" he said lightly. "These look like his webs."

Peter ducked his head like he was embarrassed to be caught out, but still he worried – did Tony know? Did Tony suspect?

"Aw, don't worry, Pete," Tony teased, and Peter wondered if it was his imagination or if there really was serious promise in the billionaire's eyes that said more than his words implied. "I won't tell anyone about your little crush, promise. Your secret's safe with me."

Peter wondered which secret he was talking about.

* * *

Bucky was waiting for Peter to come back, again.

He couldn't help it. He'd made it a habit since the first night he had been proven correct in his need to worry about the kid's wellbeing. Peter didn't go out every night, so Bucky could justify to himself that a little less sleep for the sake of his the kid was just fine. He could catch up on sleep on a night when Peter was in bed, too.

It wasn't super late this time either, so he wasn't alarmed. It was just a low-grade worry that sat in his stomach and in the back of his mind the entire time he knew Peter was out of the Tower without anyone else with him.

It's just…he was sixteen. _Anything _could happen, never mind that he had super powers. He still worried about _Steve_, for goodness' sake, and he was big and strong and well able to handle himself now, although Steve had teased him several times when he commented on how much nicer it was to have his mother hen tendencies turned toward someone else for a change.

Bucky always returned these sentiments by flipping him off and making a point of following him around more and reminding him to eat and do the little things, before he was distracted with Peter again and went back to watching him more.

Whatever. He could multitask. It seemed Peter had the same incurable Dumbass Disease as Steve did, and Bucky made a point of telling Steve so when Steve gave him grief for his actions.

Besides, Peter actually _did _need help right now. Bucky still wasn't sure how long Peter had been homeless for, but it had been long enough that Peter had started forgetting to eat, because he didn't notice anymore when he was hungry. Bucky knew what that was like – living in what was now called the Great Depression (though Bucky didn't think there was anything _great _about it) had trained him to do the same thing. He had always fretted about Steve wasting away when he had his small, sickly body, and so most often he had shoved half of his food onto Steve's plate when they ate together, or pretended he'd eaten earlier when they didn't. Joining the Army had actually provided him with _more _food – rationed as it was, at least it was consistent, and when others had stopped to eat, he had taken stock of himself and realized, oh yes, that gnawing pain in his stomach meant that it was time for _him _to eat, too.

So he could understand that Peter needed time to get used to it, and used to the idea that there would always be more than enough food for him. In the meantime, Bucky would watch what he ate to make sure that he got enough, because it was the only way Peter would be built back to full strength.

He'd seen those marks on his arms, after all, and he assumed that he was correct in deducing that it circled back to Peter's health and needing to build up his strength. He had seen them again just the day before when his sleeve had ridden up while he was reading some book that Sam had gotten for him, and they were looking better than they had three and a half weeks before, after he'd fallen from the roof.

Not as good as they _could _be, he reminded himself. If they were back to normal, then Peter wouldn't have felt the need to create those mechanical webs he'd been working on for the past couple of weeks. Tonight was the night that Peter was testing them for the first time.

So he wasn't worried. He _wasn't_. So what if Peter was testing out something new that was supposed to carry his body through the streets? So what if he was testing it out by throwing himself right into it, like jumping in the deep end of a pool to learn how to swim? Peter was a genius, no doubt about it. He would be _fine_.

(But what if he wasn't?)

Bucky huffed out a breath to himself. He needed to just calm down already. Peter would be back soon, certainly. No, he didn't have a comm unit in his suit yet, which was a gross oversight on Bucky's part but one that he would repent of as soon as Peter got back. He wasn't taking 'later' as an answer this time – he was determined to get that comm unit in there before Peter went out Spidermanning again. Just to listen in on these nights, and make sure Peter was okay.

Steve was in bed again. Bucky glanced at the clock – it was just past midnight. A little late to be baking, but if Steve woke up from the smell Bucky could just blame it on insomnia. The baking, that is.

He didn't used to cook so much – not when he first came to live in the Tower. Here and there, when he'd been in the mood, but not as a habit. He and Steve were the only ones he offered the food to, because he was afraid that if he offered it to any of the others or added himself to the dinner rotation, they would suspect he was trying to poison them and politely decline while inwardly worrying he would stab them in their sleep for their refusal. Bucky hadn't wanted to risk the reaction, so he'd kept his experimenting to himself.

That had changed after meeting Peter, even before Peter had moved into the Tower, too. Looking back, Bucky was pretty sure he'd known from the beginning – at least subconsciously – that Peter would move in, and he'd instinctively gone to learn how to make different dinners so that he knew he would be able to provide meals for the kid. Steve had been the one to insist after a particularly well-made lasagna that he share with the rest of the team, and the rest had been history.

Now, he wanted to try a new cookie recipe that used applesauce and craisins, and it seemed the perfect time to do it while he was worrying waiting for Peter to come home.

He was just taking a batch out of the oven when his ears perked up at the sound of the elevator making its way up. He cocked his head in confusion, because normally Peter knocked on his bedroom window to ask JARVIS to open it to let him in. But who else would be using the elevator at this time of night but Peter.

Then he began to worry, because what if Peter was hurt, and he couldn't climb up the side of the Tower? What if –

He cut his own thoughts off when the elevator stopped on their floor with an almost-silent ding so that Steve wouldn't be awakened in his room. He went to the elevator quickly, expecting to see Peter.

And he did see him as he got off, but – he was still in his Spiderman uniform. He blinked, astonished, because what was Peter _thinking_, taking the elevator up while still in his uniform, where anyone could see him or where Steve might even choose this night as the one he couldn't sleep and come and discover him in their living room?

He didn't look injured, no tears or anything on the costume, but there was a fine layer of what looked like flour or some other kind of white powder coating his entire body. His mask was askew though, turned slightly to the side so that Peter probably couldn't see clearly through both lenses.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Bucky said, heart in his throat as he moved forward, because something _had _to be wrong for Peter to show up like this, didn't it?

Peter inhaled like he was about to say something, before he brought a fist in front of his mouth and coughed lightly. A little puff of white escaped from the mask with the force of his breath. Then Peter made a mildly irritated sound and pulled off his mask, letting out a sigh like he was relieved to be free of it.

Bucky didn't like how Peter was acting very different from normal – it was raising his hackles like he was ready to fight some unknown and unseen force. He hovered in front of Peter, trying to get a read on the situation and feeling lost.

"Are you concussed?" Bucky guessed, which seemed even more likely to be the case when he saw how dilated Peter's pupils were and how Peter blinked at him vaguely. "What's wrong? What happened?"

Peter blinked at him again, staring at him like Bucky was speaking another language and Peter needed a moment to translate it in his head. Then he took a deep breath and let it out – more like a sigh, really – and smacked his lips.

"I smell cookies," he said blearily.

Bucky froze. Peter had just spoken. Why had he just spoken?

_What_ had happened tonight?


	14. Chapter 14

Peter was so _glad _that his web shooters worked, just as he'd thought they would. He felt freed from having to worry about irritating his _actual _spinnerets when he had these, and he had a couple of backup cartridges for when he ran out of what was already loaded. He didn't anticipate having to change them tonight, expecting about a thousand yards from each one, but one never knew what he might get up to in a night's work.

He felt grateful later for this forethought, because Deadpool found him a couple of hours into his patrol.

Thankfully, the merc didn't say anything that might suggest he knew something was wrong, and Peter was grateful for it because he didn't know how he would react if Deadpool accused him of acting weird, either this time or the last time they were together.

Deadpool just acted the same as he always did, with his flirting and his jokes and innuendos, but somehow it didn't bother Peter as much this time as it had last time. He still felt bad that Wade had a crush on him and he was a teenager practically leading him on now that he knew about it, but the pain wasn't quite so stinging as it had been when he had first had the realization of Deadpool's feelings.

It got even better when Deadpool told him about a crime ring that was meeting that night, and he would love to have his most consistent partner in "un-crime" to help him deal with it.

Peter had agreed, feeling almost drunk on his joy at his successful web shooters, and couldn't help the feeling of glee when he caught sight of Wade's expression (or, what he could see of it, through the mask) at the use of his web shooters.

"Aw, Spidey!" Wade cooed excitedly when he caught up to him on the next roof over. "Are you feeling better? Your webs are working again?"

Peter sort of nodded and shook his head, because those were two very different questions. He showed Wade the devices he had made, and Wade accepted the wordless invitation to examine the web shooters.

"You're some kinda genius – I _knew _it!" Wade crowed after finishing his inspection of the devices. "White, you can _suck _it, because I _told_ you Spidey-babe was more than just a nice figure!" Then he seemed to realize something and the smugness switched to concern in a second. "Wait, does that mean your _actual_ webs are never gonna be better? Is that why you made these?"

Peter shook his head reassuringly and took off the web shooter, tugging the sleeve of his uniform up to reveal his wrist – still reddened, but looking _loads _better than when Deadpool had seen it more than a month ago.

"Aw, you're doing better!" Wade pointed out in a pleased voice upon seeing Peter's progress. "I hope the book is helping. You better tell me if you need more, alright, Spidey?"

Peter nodded, because he was okay now, and he had the Avengers to give him what he needed. He wouldn't need to ask Deadpool for anything more than he'd already given. Whatever his intentions were, Wade had already done so much for him that Peter would _never _be able to pay him back.

"Good!" Deadpool chirped. "Now c'mon. I'm itching to go stab a few bitches!"

Peter rolled his eyes, but let Deadpool lead the way to where the drug dealers were meeting.

And, all told, it went down fairly smoothly. Deadpool's left hand got blown off and he had at least six bullet holes in random places all over his body, but that was pretty par for the course for the merc, so he told himself to stop fretting over it, that the man would be healed before daybreak. Well, the hand would take longer, but the point was still there.

Peter wasn't even sure what kind of drugs it was that they were dealing, but Wade had told him that it was some kind of new psychotropic that was supposed to be as addictive as heroin but with less of the bad side effects. Whatever the case, they were both in agreement that these drugs could _not _hit the streets, and did all they could to stop the thirty-some-odd henchmen in the warehouse.

Several bullets spattered against the piles of plastic wrap-encased drugs, tearing open the bags and sending the white powder into the air. Apparently once these guys saw Deadpool they cared more about their lives than the drugs, and didn't care if they all got destroyed, as long as they got rid of Deadpool. Peter supposed that it would make sense, if he was on that side, because Deadpool was known for killing people and they were instinctively afraid for their lives on sight, not knowing that with Spiderman there that there was a strict "no killing" policy. Maiming was okay though, he supposed, because he couldn't change _everything _about who Deadpool was and it would be crazy to expect no wounds from him. At least he only chopped body parts off of the ones who actually landed a hit on him. Most of the others he shot in the shoulder or the hand to send them away. Peter took care of webbing as many as he could to the ceiling. He was certain that some of those guys were just grateful that Deadpool hadn't reached them, though as time went on and Deadpool reached more of them, more and more were sent to the ceiling already wounded.

Which is also how he figured out (though in retrospect, he should have known earlier) that his engineered webs – made of _chemical _mixtures – burned on open wounds as much as pouring alcohol over it did. Oh, well. The police would get there soon.

But, as he spent more time there, leaping and spinning through the warehouse, he began to feel…woozy, almost.

At first, he worried that he was burning through calories too quickly. Maybe his blood sugar was dropping and his body was telling him to stop Spidermanning. It had happened a few times in the beginning, when he had first run away and he had to force his body to get used to less food. It never _did _get used to it, but it stopped sending him the signals to stop what he was doing and find sustenance. He wondered if the month at the Tower had brought his body back to that point where it could alert him again, and was trying to do so now, at probably the most inopportune time that it possibly could.

But the feeling got stronger, and his head was beginning to feel almost…floaty. Detached from his body, almost. His next aim with his webs was slightly off, and he had to adjust and shoot again to catch another guy and wrap him up to hang him from the ceiling.

The ground was…and the ceiling…and the walls, whoa – they were all spinning and kind of distorted around him, and his hearing was kinda fuzzy like he was just under the surface of the water. This definitely wasn't blood sugar.

He stumbled and fell, leaning heavily into the broken bags of drugs – whatever they were – and the powder coming up from the broken bags.

_Hm, this feels kinda nice, _Peter thought vaguely. He wanted a blanket, to snuggle into. A fuzzy one, maybe. He hadn't had a fuzzy blanket in a looong time. He'd just wrap himself in it and maybe snuggle into someone else, like Bucky or Steve or maybe even Wade.

Oh, but – then it might be too much. The blanket. And a person. But the blanket, it could – it could squeeze too tight around him –

No. No, that wasn't the blanket making it hard to breathe, Peter realized. His _mask_! His mask was covering his face and restricting his breathing and he had to get it off, get it off _now _–

"Hey, hey, hey!" a voice broke through the haze over his brain. The voice was familiar, he thought, and hands were grabbing his wrists, which he realized had been attempting to take the mask off. He _needed _it off, he couldn't _breathe _–

"No, no, Spidey! Leave the mask on. We're still with all the baddies, remember? And you don't want me to see your mug either, do you? Here, just – leave it over your nose, like when we eat, see? You're okay, you're getting enough air – shit, let's get you out of here. I didn't think the drugs would affect you. Sorry, Spidey…"

Peter was feeling kind of nauseated, and his vision was kind of dim and fuzzy, but he could feel Wade's familiar hands pulling him up out of where he'd fallen into the drugs like they were a beanbag chair before guiding him forward, presumably out of the warehouse.

"Hey, let's get you some food," Wade said, and Peter felt the cool, slightly humid night air brush against the bared bottom half of his face. "That'll probably make the drugs cycle through faster. Shit, I'm sorry Spidey, I thought your metabolism would make it useless, ya know? I promise I didn't bring you out here to roofie you."

Peter hummed, letting himself be guided along. "S'okay," he croaked, voice rough with disuse. It sounded kind of like Bucky's voice. Hm, he hadn't expected that. He supposed he'd gone through his last bit of puberty and his voice had deepened without him realizing it, but somehow he had still been expecting to hear the voice he'd had almost a year ago.

Then again, he hadn't really been expecting to hear _anything_, because he was mute. That meant he didn't speak. Somehow though, he didn't find himself feeling the normal panic he usually had when he tried to speak. Maybe that was the drugs, he decided. It made him not worry so much.

Oh, yeah – Bucky! Bucky worried about him. He needed to see Bucky. He couldn't stay with Deadpool, because Bucky was probably waiting for him to get back.

"Needa go home," Peter told Wade, not noticing how the man was in a state of stunned silence at the sound of him speaking or how his voice came out whiny.

"Yeah, yeah," Wade hurried to say, and they began walking again. Well, Wade walked. Peter sort of stumbled along beside him. When had the ground gotten so uneven? "I – honestly don't really know what to do right now, but I can't let you go home alone like this. You're – _really _stoned."

"No 'm not," Peter muttered, and when had he smashed his face in Wade's arm? At least Wade was warm. His lips felt kinda numb. Peter's, not Wade's. He didn't know what Wade's felt like. Maybe Wade's were numb too, because the scarring on his face must have done some kind of damage to the nerves underneath. But maybe his lips felt different.

But anyway. Peter's lips were numb, making it hard to talk. But he'd always had a difficult time speaking, so he could deal. At least his voice was working, and words stumbled out without him thinking about them too much. "'m notta proph't in th' _Bible_. Can't be _stoned_."

Wade sighed. "So, _so _stoned," was all he said, and maybe if Peter was in his right mind he would have noticed the fondness in the older man's voice, but right then he was much more focused on how funny his tongue felt when he moved it inside his mouth and between his teeth.

"Lemme take you to my place, then," Wade said. "You can sleep off all…_this_."

But suddenly Peter remembered something. He was feeling really chatty right now, at least in comparison to the last several months; if he stayed with Deadpool for very long, he might tell him all his secrets! And he couldn't do that. They were _his _secrets, and Wade couldn't have them. Peter should shove them in a box and bury them. Maybe a treasure chest. Treasure chests got buried, after all. But that would imply his secrets were treasures, but he was really useless so he wouldn't call it a _treasure _chest. Maybe a garbage chest. Maybe he could just shove himself inside before he buried it.

"Gotta _go_," Peter insisted, trying to straighten up on his own again, but his feet were getting all tangled together. "Can't – 'll tell you _alllll_ my secrets. 'f I stay wit' you."

Wade sighed. "Well, Spidey, where do you want me to take you?" he asked patiently. "I don't give a shit about your secret identity right now – I can't leave you alone like this. You'll get hurt."

"Nuh-uh, I made _web shooters_," Peter said conspiratorially, turning his head to look up at Deadpool and almost falling over when that made him lose his balance again. "Can't fall offa roof _now_."

"You fell off a _roof_?!" Deadpool's voice was very high.

"Oops," Peter giggled, ducking his head again. "Wasn' s'posed to tell you that."

"Dammit, Spidey," Wade sighed, and was definitely about to say something else before Peter cut him off.

"James," he slurred, leaning heavily into Wade once again. "James'll take care o' me."

"James?" Wade repeated, his voice odd, but Peter couldn't interpret it. "Who's James?"

Peter blinked, and then a moment later realized his eyes were still closed and carefully opened them again. "Bucky," he said when Wade kept asking for clarification on who James was. "Ev'r'one else calls 'im Bucky. Or Barnes."

"Bucky Barnes," Wade muttered. "Of course Spidey-babe is cozy with the Avengers. We're discussing this later, Spidey, when you're not so stoned out of your gourd. Because I am _hurt_, and _betrayed_, that you are pals with Bucky Barnes and have not introduced me to Captain America!"

"Steve?" Peter opened his eyes again when the last couple of words filtered through the fog in his mind. He hadn't realized that he'd closed his eyes again. "Where's 'e?"

Wade sighed. "_Later_, Spidey," he vowed. "Let's get you back to Avengers Tower."

"M'kay," Peter hummed, leaning further into Wade so much that Wade huffed, and a moment later Peter was on his back staring at the sky and wondering how he got there while his stomach made a swooping motion inside him. Wade was carrying him, so that they could walk faster through the streets. He decided that this was a good development, because his limbs felt very heavy and now he didn't have to walk on his own.

It felt like he blinked and they were at the Tower, and it seemed even taller than it usually did. He felt suddenly energized, like he could do just about anything right then, and even though his vision was still kinda skiwampus, he felt certain that he could make it back to his room without anyone else being the wiser.

"Whoa, no webs," Wade ordered when Peter pointed his wrist up to go up the side of the building to his room. The larger man grabbed his wrist and brought it back down to a safe location. "I can't follow you like that to make sure you're okay."

"I don't _need_ you to follow me," Peter said. Or, he thought he said. But there was no vibration in his throat, and he blinked, bringing a hand to his neck in surprise, realizing that no sound had come out and he'd done nothing more than mouth the words.

Well, that was no good. But he decided to accept it with aplomb and worry about it later. So, he decided to follow Deadpool – but when Deadpool wanted to go through the front door, Peter shook his head, because those doors were closed and locked this late at night and besides, if he went through the main door it was more likely that people would see him coming in. Or, not _him _coming in, but Spiderman. And the Avengers didn't know Spiderman – they knew Peter.

So he turned and walked away from Deadpool, figuring the guy would follow him, and wandered around to the side of the building with the secret door that Bucky had taken him to the first time he'd come to the Tower.

Deadpool let out an interested sound when the door opened, and Peter vaguely thought he heard him say something about the merit of secret doors, but Peter couldn't really focus on more than one thing at a time, and his focus right then was on staying upright and trying to contain the jittery feeling underneath his skin. It was kind of like when he needed to go out patrolling, but also with an edge of exhaustion to it like he could bounce hyper off the walls or he could pass out as soon as he laid down on a flat surface. He couldn't go out patrolling like _this_.

Besides, Wade probably wouldn't let him. Stinky Wade, being _responsible_. Pah.

"Welcome back, Mister Spiderman," JARVIS' voice said pleasantly, "And Wade 'Deadpool' Wilson."

"That's some creepy-ass shit," Wade declared, but he sounded more delighted than he did freaked out.

"I shall take Mister Spiderman up to his floor," JARVIS said crisply, in a no-nonsense tone. Peter never failed to find it interesting that the AI could have tones to his voice.

"I just wanna make sure he makes it up safely," Wade told the AI as Peter half-walked, half-stumbled over to the elevator, Wade following closely behind. "He's stoned out of his mind right now, and I don't want him dropping dead before he has someone watching him."

"I understand perfectly, Mister Wilson," JARVIS assured him. "However, you do not have clearance to be on any of the Avengers' personal floors, and in the interest of keeping Mister Spiderman's identity a secret from those in the Tower who don't know, I shall have to refrain from waking Sir to approve your presence here."

"The rest of the Avengers don't know?" Deadpool sounded very surprised. "Well, shit, Spidey – that just makes me even _more _curious who you are, that you're living here without them knowing you've got super powers! OMG, are you _dating _one of them?"

His voice was a bit off at the last question, but Peter couldn't be bothered to take note of it or ponder on the reasons why. He simply shook his head tiredly, waiting for Deadpool to leave so that JARVIS would open the elevator doors so that he could go upstairs and maybe eat all 5,000 of his daily calories in one sitting.

"Well…alright, then, Spidey," Wade accepted reluctantly, before looking challengingly at the ceiling where the voice was coming through the speakers the clearest. "And you, Voice-In-The-Walls, make sure he gets there safely, drinks a shit ton of water, and eats some real food, alright?"

"As you say, Mister Wilson," JARVIS said, sounding amused.

"Come find me when you're feeling better, so I know you're okay," Wade directed to Peter, and waited for Peter's nod of vague understanding before smacking an exaggerated kiss to his cheek and prancing out the door.

"Mister Wilson is a friend, Master Peter, correct?" JARVIS asked after Peter had gotten in the elevator and the doors closed in front of him. Peter looked through blurred eyes at the mirrored surface in front of him, taking a moment to process the question before nodding.

"Very good," JARVIS said, sounding pleased. "I shall not have to destroy his life, then."

Peter couldn't be bothered to think of the implications of JARVIS' casual threat to Wade's life at that moment. His vision was clearing and focusing in with scary intensity, like when he had first gotten the spider bite that had changed everything. His stomach was also roaring angrily with the force of his sudden hunger, and his ears were ringing like he'd just been knocked in the head. At least the nausea and dizziness was gone, he thought.

The elevator softly chimed its arrival on the correct floor, but for Peter it sounded like it was right next to his ear, senses attuned as they were. The doors opened, and he stepped out, suddenly realizing that maybe Steve was still up and he should have changed out of his Spiderman uniform.

"Hey, what's wrong?" a voice pulled him out of his hyper focus, and he realized that James was standing a few feet in front of him. He looked concerned. Had something happened?

He opened his mouth to ask, but something like dust got caught in his throat, and he realized that Deadpool must have pulled the mask back over his chin and he had probably inhaled more of the drugs still sticking to his mask. He coughed to clear it, irritated at the inconvenience and pulling off his mask so that he could breathe better.

Bucky said something else, but Peter was distracted with whatever smell was wafting through the apartment. It smelled sweet, but it was a bit of a new smell, mixed with something familiar. Underneath it all, he thought it might be –

"I smell cookies," he realized.

* * *

Bucky couldn't help staring as Peter steadily worked through every single cookie that came out of the oven. He'd known the kid could eat, but on drugs? _Damn_, he could _eat_.

He didn't mind the amount he ate, but he _was _concerned about the _reason _for it.

He didn't know what kind of drugs Peter had ingested, but they were clearly very strong. That Peter's metabolism hadn't digested them by now was honestly fairly alarming, because Peter's metabolism worked three times as fast as a standard human's and the drug hadn't been injected directly – it had just been whatever stray powder was in the air. Granted, there was a lot of powder – the fact that it almost completely _covered _Peter's suit was proof enough of that – but inhaling a drug was supposed to _lessen_ how long its effects had hold.

He hadn't been able to get much out of Peter, either. The speaking didn't seem to be voluntary, random half-formed sentences and phrases occasionally escaping Peter's lips that Bucky couldn't find any connection between. His voice was a bit deeper than he had expected, still with the pitch of youth but also that of one still going through puberty. The random cracks in his voice were probably due to not talking in so long though, so Bucky wasn't totally certain he could judge it accurately. And it was clearly the drugs that was allowing for Peter to talk at _all_, because after saying something, half the time Peter had this amazed look of realization appear on his face directly after, like he himself was surprised that any sound had made it past his vocal chords.

And Bucky was worried, okay? Peter had been in the apartment for twenty minutes now, and he wasn't acting any different than he had when he had shown up. Who _knew _what kind of effects these drugs could have in the long term?

Luckily he had been able to convince Peter that before eating, he would feel much better in his pajamas. And it had honestly been pretty adorable, trying to wrestle him into some different clothes while he kept a death grip on the cookies in each of his hands. Peter had insisted on wearing an Iron Man tee that he'd yet to wear due to the short sleeves, and Bucky decided to accede to his wishes after he looked ready to cry when Bucky tried to get him into long sleeves to try and hide his raw spinnerets, as Peter would have done if he was in his right mind. Hopefully Steve could remain asleep through whatever nonsense Peter tried to pull tonight while he was so high.

Later though, he thought that the sleeves probably didn't matter, because Peter insisted that he was more comfortable sitting on the ceiling while he ate his cookies. Bucky thought that that must cause indigestion, being upside down like that, but he just sighed and kept the cookies cycling through the oven so that Peter could be kept happy with the steady stream. He _really _hoped that Steve didn't come in.

Peter gradually grew quieter, the random comments slowing, and Bucky knew that it was the drugs wearing off and the mutism taking hold again of his vocal chords. At least he knew now, for sure, that there was no damage to Peter's vocal chords and he was _physically_ able to speak. Whatever it was that caused his silence was mental – some kind of trauma, or grief…Bucky didn't know for sure, and didn't feel like it was his right to ask, but he was determined to help Peter any way he could to get him comfortable speaking again.

Peter had been quiet for a good twenty minutes, and Bucky looked at the clock over the stove to see that it was almost three o' clock in the morning now and half of the last tray of cookies was still sitting on the cooling rack. He looked up at the ceiling, where Peter was sitting with his legs crossed and his fluff of hair was hanging down. Bucky idly thought that he should probably help Peter with getting that cut, if he wanted. His face wasn't reddened unnaturally in the slightest, which Bucky would have expected with him being upside down, but he supposed that something about his Spidey powers made it a natural enough position that his body knew how to siphon his blood through in positions like these. He hadn't thought about it before, but the lack of red in Peter's face was slightly disconcerting now.

But, there were worse things to be concerned about, so he just decided to roll with whatever came his way as far as Peter and his powers were concerned.

Peter was watching him, eyes still slightly dilated and bloodshot, but he had an awareness to him that hadn't been there for the past couple of hours that made Bucky want to sag in relief at seeing.

"You ready to go to bed, now?" Bucky asked him quietly with a little quirk of his lips to assure Peter that he wasn't mad at being kept up.

Peter blinked at him slowly, like it was taking a moment for the words to fully process, before he nodded agreeably and raised his arms above his head – below his head? – so that when he dropped from the ceiling, his hands landed on the island counter, moving more gracefully than one would expect while under the influence as he did a sort of flip to let his legs drop one after another to the ground. The move was seamless and fluid, and Bucky found himself breathing more easily not only at the evidence that Peter was slowly coming out the other side of the drugs, but that he was also off the ceiling. He trusted that Peter could stay up there _normally_, but it had been nerve-wracking to wonder whether or not the drugs would impair his mind enough that he would forget to hold on and just splat to the ground.

Peter wobbled a bit again once he was on his feet, and Bucky moved forward to steady him carefully.

"Alright?" Bucky confirmed, and Peter nodded, letting Bucky guide him to his bedroom.

Peter was under the covers and Bucky was just about to turn back and leave him to sleep off the last of the drugs when he felt a soft, hesitant touch at his wrist. He turned back to Peter, raising a single eyebrow in question.

Peter looked nervous, wetting his lips with his tongue and opening and closing his mouth a couple of times like he was trying to speak. Bucky remained silent, realizing that's exactly what he was doing and not wanting to spook him. Smiling a bit in encouragement even as his heart tripped with sadness at Peter's silence again when he so clearly wanted to communicate, he waited to see if Peter would be successful.

And when he was, he couldn't help the way his heart warmed at it, and at what Peter was so intent on saying out loud.

"_Thank you_," Peter croaked, voice barely a whisper but eyes burning with determination and hope. "Safe." He tapped Bucky's wrist with a single finger to indicate that he was talking about him.

"It's not a problem, kid," Bucky assured him. "Get some sleep."


	15. Chapter 15

**I apologize in advance.**

* * *

When Peter woke up, he had to take a second to get his bearings and figure out where he was. He was warm, _too _warm – his blanket was sticking to him with the sweat from his body. He kicked it off, sighing at the soft air flow drifting over his body from the air conditioning. He stared up at the ceiling, realizing that he was at the Tower, and tried to remember how he had gotten there.

At first, there was nothing. He remembered…he remembered being with Deadpool, taking down the drug dealers at that warehouse near Jersey. He remembered the powder of the drugs floating through the air, breathing normally because he had expected his metabolism to take care of it before it could affect him.

After that…after that it was blurry. He vaguely recalled Wade insisting that he keep his mask on, and he felt a swell of gratitude that the man had been so decent, not just not taking advantage of his compromised state, but actively making sure that Peter's wishes could be respected from the choices he made in his right mind, not accepting what Peter said when he was so out of it.

And…he'd taken him back to the Tower. Peter _really_ hoped he hadn't told him that he lived there, because from what he remembered he had actually been talking to the man –

Holy cheese balls, he had _talked_! Peter shot up in bed, eyes shooting wide as he distantly remembered being able to speak, just a little bit.

He felt like he could cry with gratitude. He had thought he would never be able to talk again, but now remembering this seemed to unlock the rest of his memories as he remembered talking with _Bucky_, too. Even the shame at remembering how he had eaten at least four dozen cookies couldn't break through the excitement that swept through him at realizing that he wouldn't be defected forever.

Swallowing a couple of times to try and wet his dry mouth, he licked his lips and took a breath, planning to greet JARVIS.

A strangled croak escaped his throat, and it felt like a hand had physically reached up and _grabbed _his throat to silence his attempt at sound, and it _hurt_.

Peter's jaw snapped shut, and he felt like he could cry at what a failure he was. Of course he couldn't expect that one night of being able to talk a little bit would magically heal him. He was just as defunct as ever, and he scowled at himself, kicking himself mentally for believing that all would be well now, that _he _could do anything about his mutism.

Biting his bottom lip harshly to stave off frustrated tears, he let himself fall back onto the bed, wincing when his head pounded in protest to the sudden movement. He just wanted to roll over and go back to sleep, and not worry about all of his problems right now.

He chided himself a moment later, because he was doing much better now than he was two months ago. At least now he had a roof over his head with air conditioning and heating and as much food as he wanted to eat always available to him. He had friends and sort-of-maybe-almost-friends that he lived with now, and Bucky was still keeping his secret for him and not trying to convince him to share it with the rest of the Avengers. Tony Stark and Bruce Banner regularly invited him to come and do science with them like really cool uncles and genuinely paid attention when he had an idea that took a bit longer to communicate, due to his lack of speech. Clint and Sam played video games with him like they were the cool older cousins and Steve and Bucky watched over him like they were vying for position of dad and he didn't know Natasha very well but he thought she might like him at least a little bit.

He wilted, feeling very guilty for being upset about his problems, because so many people had it way worse than him and didn't even have the hope of getting out of their hole. He was still in a hole, but he felt like maybe the family ones he lived with now were providing ladders and ropes to try and help him out of it. He shouldn't feel depressed.

The mental scolding didn't really get rid of his depressed feelings or desire to just stay in bed for a day or six, but he forced himself up, anyway. He should go and get food, because if he remembered correctly he had eaten a _lot _of cookies the night before and he should probably get something with a bit more protein to try and get rid of the last of the drugs and their nasty side effects the day after.

Without pausing, thinking he would probably lose what little resolve was carrying him if he took the time to brush his teeth or use the bathroom, he opened his bedroom door and went out to the kitchen.

Steve was there, sitting at the stool in front of the island and snacking on a large bowl of trail mix beside his elbow while he scrolled through something on his tablet. He was dressed for the day and his hair was combed neatly to the side, and Peter glanced at the clock to see that it was almost one-thirty. Well, Steve's put-togetherness seemed much more logical now, he decided, what with it being halfway through the day and all.

"Hey," Steve greeted when Peter came in. "I was starting to wonder if you were going to sleep the whole day away!" His voice was teasing, and when he glanced over, Peter was confused at first to see Steve's gaze travel down, to –

His arms. Oh, no – he had forgotten that in his drug-induced haze he had insisted on the short-sleeved shirt, and now his forearms were bare. Steve could see the swollen spinnerets and the reddened arms and it wouldn't take much of a jump from there to figure out who he was…

But Steve only looked back to his tablet and grabbed another handful of trail mix as though nothing were amiss.

"Buck had to go to his therapy session at one," he told him, and his voice was even, the same as it always was, but it only made Peter feel even more wary. Surely Steve had noticed his arms. Surely this was a trick. "He didn't want to wake you up, but he was worried about you. I don't know everything that happened last night, but I figured I could make sure you were alright if you woke up when he was gone." Steve glanced up then, and frowned when he saw Peter still standing where he'd been last time he'd looked up.

"Come on, come eat," he invited. "You've gotta be starving. You want me to make you anything?"

Peter shook his head mutely, trying to figure out just what Steve's angle was but deciding not to mention it directly until the super soldier did. He went to the fridge, keeping his ear out for if Steve moved, and opened it to see what he could have for lunch.

"Buck made some of that chicken potato soup you like before leaving," Steve said, and Peter tensed before forcing himself to relax, grabbing the tub of soup he could see on the shelf right at eye level.

Steve chuckled. "He threatened to castrate me if I ate any of it before you could, because apparently I have no impulse control and if I tasted even a little bit of it I would eat it all before I realized it. Don't tell him, but he may be right."

Peter swallowed nervously, and took off the lid, popping the Tupperware dish into the microwave to heat it up. He was being stupid. This was Steve. Even if he _did _figure out he was Spiderman, he wasn't going to…to…he didn't know, _hurt _him. He wasn't even sure what he was scared of with Steve knowing. He had yet to treat him like a kid who didn't know any better, so perhaps he wouldn't insist that Peter wait till he was older before going out as Spiderman. Perhaps he would keep his secret too, just as Bucky had been doing for weeks now.

Or maybe he would insist on telling the rest of the Avengers, and he would be arrested or at least interrogated about his identity and every secret detail of his life. Trusting that he was grown up enough to be homeless and on his own was one thing, but letting him go out fighting bad guys and super villains was another matter entirely.

As the soup heated up in the microwave, Peter turned around and leaned against the counter, hiding his shaking hands by folding his arms across his chest in what he realized belatedly looked like a very defensive move. He tried relaxing his stance, looking at Steve and waiting to see what his reaction would be.

Steve caught the look immediately and looked confused for a second before his expression cleared into something that was carefully neutral.

"Is this look you're giving me related to your alter ego?" he said mildly. Peter blinked at him, and Steve's expression went amused. "If you were trying to keep it a secret, you weren't doing a very good job," he said plainly.

Peter was confused now. Steve…Steve had _already _known? How? And for how long? When did he figure it out? He was certain that Bucky hadn't told him – at least, _mostly _certain, like 89% – but how else could Steve have known?

Steve chuckled at the look probably adorning his face now. "Did you know that if I want to, and if I focus, I can hear someone's heart beating?" Peter didn't know how that was related _at all_ to what they were talking about, but Steve went on, the question clearly rhetorical. "When you were holed up in your room those days you were healing, I listened in to hear if you were panicking. Bucky told me you were having a hard time mentally, and he was hovering, and I wanted to figure out a way to help. And your heart – it's very fast. And I heard it several times over those days, always the same." He shrugged. "I figured you were enhanced. Made sense, because Bucky was bringing more food than even _he _could eat, even if he was sharing with you. So I paid attention, once you were out of the room again.

"It wasn't too hard to connect from there. After knowing you were enhanced, everything else lined up – your speed and your reflexes, even in something as basic as playing video games with Clint and me. Whatever sense you have, that warns you of something coming…" he shrugged, looking a bit sheepish. "I tested my theory while you were distracted with Clint and Sam, and you dodged the apple I threw at Sam without even looking at it. It reminded me of when Spiderman was fighting with us with the mole rat, and you dodged things without having to look then, too."

Peter narrowed his eyes at Steve. He'd _known _that Steve had been aiming for him with that apple, but he had innocently said he was throwing it to Sam to distract him, and Peter had taken his word for it, because Sam had been shit talking Steve the entire time they'd been playing.

"And then there's the fact that I've seen your arms a few times," Steve went on. "I thought it was cuts or a rash at first, because I only saw bits that would be uncovered when your sleeves would slide up for a second. But I saw enough that I matched it all together later on.

"Honestly, I wasn't going to say anything. You have your secrets, and I didn't want you to panic that I knew. I figured if you wanted me to know, you'd tell me on your own time."

Peter blinked at him, and the microwave beeped behind him that it was finished, but he ignored it for the moment as he stared at the blond. Steve had…Steve had known, for at least a couple of weeks, and he hadn't said or even _hinted_ at _anything_. Not to him, or to anyone else. He was certain that if he had said anything to Bucky, Bucky would have told him that Steve knew. But Bucky had done his best to keep Peter calm the night before, he remembered, when he had been too high on drugs to recognize he needed to stay quiet so that he didn't wake Steve and reveal in a very obvious way what it was exactly he did at night.

Now though, knowing that Steve had known, and still kept it a secret and respected Peter's desire to continue as Spiderman…his worries seemed a little silly. Of course Steve was trustworthy. And of course he wasn't going to stop him – he was like Bucky, just wanting to make sure he went about things safely. And besides, now it would be easier in the apartment, with both Bucky and Steve there, knowing and being able to help.

Steve's expression was worried when Peter focused back on his face again. "Was I wrong?" he asked, and it took a second for Peter to understand what he was asking. "Should I just pretend I don't know again – would that be easier for you?"

Peter smiled a bit, just a small one he aimed at Steve. He shook his head and signed _O-K_, before bringing his hand to his chin and bringing it away in the sign for "thank you".

"Good," Steve said in relief, before gesturing to Peter's arms. "Are your arms okay? Why are they so…red? Is it something to do with Spiderman?"

Peter shrugged, considering what to share as he turned and grabbed his soup from the microwave before grabbing a spoon and going to sit on the stool next to Steve. Bucky had already figured out that his spinnerets were the first sign of what was going on inside his body as far as strength went, and tried feeding him accordingly with foods high in protein and calories. When Bucky found out that Steve knew he was Spiderman, he would no doubt tell him what he knew so that Steve could watch and help him out, too. So there was really no point in letting Steve worry further.

So, he reached across Steve, grabbing a handful of trail mix and setting it on the counter beside him. Steve made a small sound of interest when Peter began to form letters and spell out words with the various nuts, raisins, and chocolate chips.

_Need food to build strength back up. _He spelled out, before spooning up some of his soup, blowing on the end to cool it off before sticking it in his mouth. He hummed with delight when the flavors burst across his tongue; thus far, this was his favorite soup that Bucky had made. He felt something warm in his chest that Bucky had gone through the effort of making it, probably having guessed that Peter would want something hearty after the night he'd had. He told himself that the warmth was probably just the soup going down.

When he looked back up at Steve, the man was staring down at Peter's arm resting on the counter, the reddened forearm unintentionally on display in the perfect position for Steve to see all of it. He shifted a bit uncomfortably at the inspection, but didn't turn the arm away because that would show his discomfort and some bit of the pride he had left that hadn't gone away even with his months of living on the streets hadn't rid him of the need to hide when he was uncomfortable.

Steve caught it anyway though, because he was observant like that and Peter had underestimated him in the whole time he'd lived there and he told himself that he wouldn't anymore. Steve didn't directly address it though, and simply asked, "Are those…where your webs come out?" Peter nodded while taking another bite of soup, and Steve looked thoughtful before he said, "Okay. Thank you for telling me, Peter."

Peter shrugged, feeling a bit embarrassed by the naked gratitude in the blond's voice. He hadn't really done anything, but you would have thought he had done Steve some great favor when really Steve was the one who had figured everything out.

Impulsively, because Peter wasn't sure whether or not JARVIS had told Bucky anything about what happened the night before, and Peter knew that _he _certainly hadn't been any help, he reached for the trail mix again, pushing it into a pile again before spelling out new words.

_Deadpool helped me last night._

"Deadpool?" Steve asked in surprise. "That's right – he kept you in his apartment when Hydra was running after Bucky, right?" Peter nodded, and Steve asked, "What'd he help you with? What happened?"

_Stopped a drug deal. _Peter spelled, and took another bite of soup before spelling out the rest of his explanation. _Metabolism couldn't stop me from getting really high. _He had to take away some of the trail mix from the beginning of the words to spell out more words at the end to keep the explanation going. Steve helpfully put another handful of the mix in front of Peter, clear encouragement for him to keep communicating. _He kept my identity secret when I couldn't do it myself in that state of mind. He brought me back to the Tower so I wouldn't be alone like that._

Steve had a smile on his face by the time Peter had finished. "I'll have to thank Deadpool when I finally get to meet him," he told Peter, and Peter thought about how excited Wade would be to have Captain America's approval. He could imagine the squealing, and couldn't help the fond smile that crept onto his face at the thought. "I'm glad he can keep our Spider-kid safe."

_Not a kid, _Peter spelled out quickly, giving Steve a little glare.

Steve laughed and reached over to ruffle his hair. "Sure, kid," he said humorously. Peter would have glared him to death, even though he was pretty sure Steve didn't mean it patronizingly, but he decided to focus his attention on more important matters, like the bowl of soup in front of him.

He could make his case for Steve later.

* * *

Amazingly, Peter found himself not thinking about Steve's apparently old knowledge that he was Spiderman, but more on the last bit of his conversation with the man, the part about Deadpool. He'd known already that Wade had kept him safe the night before, but he hadn't really thought much about it until Steve's comments about it and his approval of the older man.

It forced him to think about the mercenary in logical terms. Even when Peter was completely out of his mind on drugs, Wade had kept his secret not just from the bad guys that would have seen him in the warehouse or the people they passed on the way to the Tower, but from _himself_. It would have been very easy for Wade to have just…_missed _Peter taking off his mask until it was too late. And Peter honestly wouldn't have blamed him, would have accepted that it was an accident or even that Wade would let him do what he wanted while under the influence.

But he hadn't. Wade had done everything he could to respect Peter even when there was a high chance that Peter wouldn't even remember it later. As it was, he only remembered vague flashes of those first several minutes when the drugs were at their strongest. But from what he _did _remember, he knew that Wade had been successful in keeping Spiderman's identity a secret and wanted to make sure he was safe.

Without even knowing it, without having expected _anything_, Deadpool – _Wade _– had passed a test that Peter hadn't even realized he was watching for. This was more than just freaking out that Wade might have – _did _have – a crush on him. This was…their relationship was more than just a crush. There was respect there, and now confirmed trust. And it made Peter believe that if – _when _– he revealed his identity to the older man, Wade wasn't just going to abandon him because he was a teenager and discovered that he couldn't get in his pants.

Because now he determined to himself – he was going to tell Wade. He was going to show him who he was, and was going to trust that it wasn't going to impact their relationship. They would survive this, because there was more there than attraction – this was _real_.

He was still nervous; of course he was. He'd never voluntarily revealed his identity before – except to Gwen, but he wasn't going to think about that right now. He needed to keep his hopeful feelings, and allow that hope to carry him through the revelation to the man who was honestly probably his best friend.

Tonight, he decided. Wade had wanted to know when the drugs had worn off, after all, so he would be expecting him out sometime in the next couple of days and would be watching for him to make sure he was okay. And Peter really didn't want to wait long enough that he lost his nerve.

* * *

Peter was able to successfully convince Bucky that he was okay, and feeling back to normal again, and he needed to go and thank Deadpool for his help the night previous. He didn't tell him that he was going to reveal his identity to him, because he was a little afraid that Bucky would try and talk him out of it, and he thought if someone tried to tell him not to do it that he would lose his nerve and agree with them.

Bucky was reluctant, wanting to stuff more food into him, which seemed to be his go-to for taking care of people. When he was worried about Steve, he did the same thing. Peter figured it was carryover from living in the Depression and then living with rations in the war, so he generally humored him. And it's not like it was often that he _wasn't _hungry, so really it just worked out.

In any case, even with Bucky's reluctance he gave his usual admonishment that Peter shouldn't come back too late. He'd even gotten a phone from Tony that day to give to Peter so that if he ran into trouble he could text him, or tap the case in an SOS pattern to alert him that he needed to track him with the GPS and come to get him. Peter thought that it was a bit overkill, but he'd already been out much longer than expected a couple times and come back worse off than when he'd left, so Peter didn't protest and just nodded along to Bucky's terms.

Peter swung through the city with the webs from the shooters around his wrists, keeping an eye out on the roofs in particular for a familiar red and black costumed figure. That was usually where he found the mercenary, after all.

He'd been out searching for a mere twenty minutes when he spotted the man in question with a bag from a taco truck they'd eaten from a couple of times together before. He was sitting on the edge of the roof, seemingly arguing with the voices in his head, which happened more often than most realized. He stopped though when, heart hammering with nervousness, Peter swung onto the roof beside him.

"Spidey!" Wade cheered when Peter sat next to him, and hooked one ankle around Peter's in a companionability that was more familiar than mere friendliness, now that Peter knew to watch for these signs. It made his heart swoop uncertainly once again.

"Am I ever glad to see you back to your normal gorgeous self!" Wade said, earnestness underneath the teasing exterior. "I prefer drug use to be consensual, ya know what I'm sayin'?" He grabbed the bag on the other side of him, thrusting it at Peter. "I got tacos! Because I promised you food last night, and it didn't happen, so I _had _to make up for it with the best tacos I have ever had outside of Guadalajara."

Peter signed a "thank you" to him, but bit his lip nervously when he went to instinctively move only the bottom half of his mask up past his nose, as he usually did when they ate together. He paused with only a couple of inches moved, mask still between his fingers, and battled with himself, trying to psych himself up. He knew that if he delayed it, he might get caught up in Deadpool's…_essence_, he supposed, and wouldn't reveal himself as he had planned.

"You alright, Spidey?" Wade questioned as he dug through the bag. "Shit, you're not still feeling sick, are you? Are you gonna throw up? Is the smell of tacos making you sick?"

Peter dropped his hand, the mask only at his nose, and swallowed a couple of times, trying to work through the nervousness. He realized that he couldn't just…rip his mask off and be done with it. Deadpool – _Wade _– needed an explanation, especially if things went south like he half feared and he could never see him again. But he didn't know how to pantomime what he needed to the man – this went deeper than mere gestures, and Wade himself had said he didn't know even the alphabet in sign language. This needed words.

And Peter was determined to give it to him.

He knew that he didn't have a deep reservoir though, and he was afraid that using too many words at the beginning would take away words for the end, so he only used the words he absolutely needed.

Giving Wade a thumbs up to assure him that he was okay, he swallowed again before he was able to croak out, "Last night…" and then made the sign for "thank you".

Wade stilled at the sound of his voice, and Peter realized that Wade had probably correctly assumed that his speaking the night previous was only due to the effects of the drugs, and he hadn't expected Peter to speak again once said drugs had worn off. It made something warm in Peter, that Wade had just accepted this and hadn't tried to push him to speak immediately upon seeing him again, respecting his space and the state of his mind in ways that Peter _knew _that most wouldn't. It gave Peter a boost of confidence, of reassurance that he was alright in revealing himself to Deadpool.

After a moment, Wade clearly processed _what_ Peter had said and what he was trying to say, and assured, "Aw, it's no trouble, Spidey. Anyone woulda done it. What are friends for if not for making sure they don't do stupid shit while under the influence, amirite?"

The thing is, in this situation, Peter was certain that _not _anyone would have done it, but he didn't have enough words to express this to Deadpool so he passed over it.

"I-identity," Peter stuttered, pushing through the panic that came with speaking. "Mine. S-secret. St-still." He signed "thank you" again, but went on before Wade could insist it was nothing again, as he had clearly opened his mouth to do. "Trust – you."

He took a deep breath to try and steady himself, while Wade only sat quietly, clearly allowing him to have his time to do whatever he needed.

What he clearly hadn't expected was how Peter, with shaking hands, reached up and grabbed the edge of his mask. Wade put out a hand, about to protest, probably assure him that it was okay to keep his secret, but Peter had already ripped the mask off in one movement.

Slightly sweaty hair fell around his face, and he twisted his mask in his hands, taking a moment to stare at the brick of the building he was sitting on, before he looked up to face Wade's expression head-on.

Wade's eyes were wide, and he was completely frozen, hand still slightly outstretched like he had forgotten about it. Peter fidgeted, biting his lip and waiting for him to say something.

And then, after a moment that seemed to drag on forever, Wade stiffened. "Peter," he breathed quietly. "You're Peter – the – the one that Matt and Barnes brought by."

Peter nodded slowly, not sure what to expect from Wade's reaction, but feeling his heart sinking with dread. Wade didn't seem happy.

"You're…" Wade's voice was strangled as he tried to force the words out. "You're a fucking _teenager_."

Peter flinched, expecting judgment, or condemnation, or…

This was not a good reaction. He began leaning back, ready to scoot away at the first sign of…of…

Wade jumped to his feet, and Peter stumbled to his own in response, reaching out to – he didn't know. And he never would, because Wade flinched back like he was holding a taser or something equally dangerous to hurt him with.

"You're a _kid_," Wade practically spat, and Peter flinched again before he tightened his jaw. He wasn't going to take Wade's judgment, or his pity, or him telling Peter that he shouldn't be out here, fighting bad guys. He'd been doing this for almost two years. No one, not even Wade, could tell him that he was too young for this. He hadn't expected this. Not from Wade.

"Why – why…?" Deadpool said, clutching at his head like he was trying to process this all, and Peter felt a yawning chasm of sadness and regret open in his gut. He hadn't expected this.

"'m sorry," Peter choked out, that ever-present cold hand trying to grasp at his throat, to close up his vocal chords and his lungs and make it impossible to speak or breathe.

"No," Deadpool breathed, and continued to mumble it to himself again and again and Peter didn't know what to do when he was trapped in his head like this.

Suddenly, Deadpool's head snapped up and looked at Peter directly again. Peter began to hope, despite himself, that maybe it would be okay, that they could talk, and Peter could explain himself…

But then Deadpool shook his head, and Peter felt the hope crash in his heart again. Without another word, Deadpool turned and _ran_, jumping off the building and quickly disappearing from sight.

Peter stood there, feeling very lost. He hadn't expected this. He had thought that Deadpool would still…would still be his friend. Partners, practically. He had known it would be a shock, that he was a kid and that Deadpool had been crushing on him, but he had thought that their relationship was more important than that. That their friendship was more important. Now, he wondered if he would ever see Wade again, after watching him literally run away from him and who he turned out to be.

He hadn't expected _this_.

* * *

***runs away***


	16. Chapter 16

**Once upon a time (about three weeks ago, actually), this author decided to see what all the fuss was about with Good Omens and watched the entire series in a day. Since then, she has completely neglected her other duties and works in the MCU, and fell down the rabbit hole of another fandom. She had lots of fun, reblogged lots of beautiful fanart, and read through thousands of words worth of stories that other fans of Good Omens wrote. To many, it probably seemed as though she had completely abandoned her MCU stories that were still in progress.**

**One day though, she remembered her work in progress - one that she particularly loved and held dear - and she wanted to let those readers know that she was indeed still alive. So, clawing her way up the rabbit hole and fighting such obstacles as a lost wallet, packing to move, and a raging head cold, she was finally able to finish and post the next chapter of her work. She hoped that her readers would be pleased with the chapter, but also recognized in the back of her mind that she hadn't started the next chapter yet and it may be a bit of a break again before she could update once more. Nonetheless, she prevailed, and went to go procrastinate a bit and distract herself from her head cold by visiting the wonderful people of Tumblr.**

* * *

Over the next several days, Peter tried to force himself not to think of Deadpool. He threw himself into anything the others offered to do with him, whether it was learning more sign language from Clint, or playing video games with Clint, Sam, and Steve, or going to the workshop with Tony or Bruce. Bucky hovered like a constant shadow, clearly sensing that something was off with him, but Peter refused to explain what had happened that _awful_ night. He told himself to just ignore Bucky's worry and his hovering – he would figure out soon enough that Peter wasn't going to be saying anything and everything would go back to normal.

It was hard, though. Going back to normal. Peter realized that he really didn't have an accurate gauge for it, and all of the newness of living in the Tower – even after almost six weeks – meant that he still felt like he was floundering even when nothing was specifically _wrong_. He found himself thinking of Deadpool anyway, not because he was agonizing about what had happened when he had revealed himself to the older man, but because he wanted some friendly, more _familiar _company that he could – well, not _talk _with, but communicate with, at least. Sure, he hadn't known Deadpool _that _much longer than the rest of them, especially when you took into account how many times he actually _saw _the man in those few months, but still there was a camaraderie with Wade that was just _different _than he had with the others. And when he thought about going out and hanging out with the mercenary, he was swiftly and painfully reminded that that wasn't an option anymore. And he wasn't sure it would be ever again.

So, the distractions didn't help. He _missed _Wade, and he kicked himself for not spending more time with him when he had the chance, but had been too afraid of putting a label on their friendship and dealt with it by avoiding him.

He was sure that the others noticed that he was moping sad, too. Whenever Tony in particular saw him, his eyes widened just a bit and he started talking faster, a textbook case of nervousness. Peter was pretty sure Tony was just uncomfortable with emotion though, because he didn't know how to deal with it.

Peter thought Tony was doing pretty alright though, and thankfully Tony's way of trying to help an unknown problem was to invite him to do what Tony would if he was in Peter's shoes, and invited him down to the workshop.

Tony also teased him a lot about his "fanboy crush" on Spiderman, but Peter just couldn't bring himself to care much about that. He also wondered how Tony could be so oblivious, because Tony _had _to have noticed Peter's reaction to him, or at least to Bruce Banner, and this certainly wasn't the same as he supposedly acted toward Spiderman. When Tony asked about the web shooters, Peter just signed to him that he had indeed finished them, but he didn't really know what to do with them, and so they just sat in a box in his room. Hopefully Tony would forget about them some day, because Peter did in fact use them most nights when he went out as Spiderman.

Fanboying about Spiderman was a good excuse though, so Peter pretended to be embarrassed when Tony made comments about his alter ego. Changing the subject that way also made sense, because if he was embarrassed he wouldn't want to talk about it, when in fact he didn't want to talk about it because he was afraid of giving away some very real secret about who he really was.

When Tony was busy and not in the workshop though, Clint was usually the one to call him over with his own distractions. Peter quickly got very good at sign language, because he crammed so much at once, but when his brain needed to take the time to process it all, he would play some video games – mostly Mario Kart – with Clint, Sam, and occasionally Steve. Steve was actually surprisingly good at the video games, so Peter couldn't understand why he didn't care for them much. He was pretty sure at this point that Steve was just playing to be with the company present. Bucky preferred only to watch while the rest of them played, and Sam told him in a quiet aside that it was because Bucky didn't like to distract himself when he was worried, and he was keeping watch on them for his own peace of mind.

Peter knew that Sam's assessment was spot-on when Bucky continuously made food from the communal kitchen, where he could watch Peter (though he pretended not to be, Peter wasn't fooled) while simultaneously able to mother-hen him into taking breaks to eat. Clint only told Bucky to keep it up, because he was one who benefited from being on the edge of Bucky's focus, being so near Peter so often, and therefore got almost as much food shoved his way as Peter did.

And it was nice, that they were trying to keep him busy, trying to cheer him up even when they didn't know what was wrong. But it felt very distant to Peter, like he was watching it all happen to someone else. He felt disconnected from it, following along mechanically, faking emotion where he felt it was expected, because he couldn't help agonizing over Wade's reaction and the fact that he hadn't caught even a glimpse of the merc for the entire week. And he'd looked. Not to confront him, of course, but just to see.

He told himself that Deadpool had probably just found a job out of the country. It was normal not to see Deadpool for a couple of weeks at a time. There was no reason he should be fretting or worrying about it now.

Except for the fact that Deadpool had literally _run away _from him, not acting at all like his normal happy-go-lucky, slightly insane self.

It had caused him to go completely silent again. He hated himself for it, for the reaction that Wade could invoke in him without even trying, without even _being _there. He had thought that he was getting better, because in those twenty-four hours right after the drugs, he could say a couple of words – to himself, to Bucky, even to Wade. But now it was as hard as it ever was before – maybe harder, because he'd had the hope that it was improving, the relief that he _could _still speak – and then it was yanked away again. He felt betrayed by his own body.

He told himself that it was the betrayal of his body he was feeling. He wasn't feeling betrayed by _Wade_, no of course not. That would mean that he had expected a better reaction than the one he'd received. And he had always known that his relationships weren't going to stay for long. Wade was just carrying on the trend, really – it wasn't his fault.

He hadn't thought much of Natasha, honestly. She generally avoided him, and the Week of Hell, as he was mentally calling it, was no different in that respect. He'd honestly thought that she didn't like him, and he told himself he was okay with that.

(Sure, it would've been cool to get to know the other spider-themed superhero, but now he was on a first-name basis with Tony Stark and Bruce Banner, and that was pretty cool in itself.)

For example, exactly one week after the Incident, they had team dinner again, which Peter had to force himself to attend because James was the one making dinner and he would worry if Peter didn't show. Despite Bucky's efforts to make a good beef stroganoff, after recently finding out it was one of Peter's favorite meals, it tasted like ash in Peter's mouth, just like everything had for a week. And he couldn't help noticing that Natasha was giving him very searching, knowing looks. It made him a little nervous, and a lot certain that she didn't like him.

But then, 175 hours, 16 minutes and 43 seconds after Deadpool had jumped off a building to get away from him, Peter was laying on the couch on Bucky and Steve's floor, waiting for either Steve or Bucky to wake up, when the elevator chimed its arrival on their floor. Peter sat up in confusion, because no one had ever come to their floor in the six weeks he had been living there, and it was almost five-thirty, an odd time for a visit, surely. His spidey sense wasn't humming a warning though, so he knew it had to be one of the team members.

But when Natasha was the one to disembark from the elevator car, looking completely put together despite the early hour, Peter was no less confused by the arrival of who it was. He sat up, tugging the long sleeves of his tee shirt down more, just to be sure they were still covering his arms.

"Oh, good, you're up," Natasha said blandly, as though there was nothing odd about showing up to your team mates' floor before the sun had fully crested the horizon. Peter wondered if it was a Natasha thing or an Avengers' thing that he just hadn't yet been privy to. "Have you eaten breakfast yet?"

Peter blinked at her, because he had indeed had a bowl of Cheerios but Bucky hadn't made him "real" breakfast yet, as he insisted on doing each morning to be sure that Peter was eating enough _good _food. Also, because he didn't know why the woman was asking.

Eventually, he shook his head in the negative, and Natasha simply nodded and went to the fridge, opening it and pulling the eggs, cheese, and milk out immediately like she was already intimately acquainted with the contents of the fridge. Peter decided that Knowing Things was just one of her super powers.

Rising from the couch to his feet, he moved closer to the kitchen, giving her a questioning look as she bent down to grab a large frying pan from one of the cupboards. She looked him up and down, making a speculative sound in her throat.

"Go get dressed," she ordered. "Including shoes. This shouldn't take long."

Deciding not to argue, though Peter had no idea what was going on, he turned and walked to his bedroom, pulling on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeve green shirt that felt soft against his skin. As he pulled on a pair of – ugh, _Vans_ – he heard Steve's alarm go off in his room and his shifting as he got out of bed.

He got back to the kitchen at the same time Steve appeared, who was pulling on a tee shirt that was for once too _big _on him and sporting a ridiculous amount of bed head. He was staring at Natasha as she moved eggs around in a frying pan, and clearly wondering if he was still asleep.

"Tasha, what're you doing here?" Steve asked, sounding hopelessly confused.

"Oh, good, you can come with us," Natasha said, not turning her head as she sprinkled a couple of handfuls of cheese into the eggs. Steve looked over at Peter as though Peter had any idea what was going on either, but Peter just shrugged, equally clueless.

"And where is that?" Steve asked finally. Peter thought it hilarious that Steve was not a morning person at all, his brain taking much too long to connect the dots before his usual run.

"We're going shopping," Natasha announced, and turned her head to glare before he could protest. "_No _arguments. Peter has been here six weeks and he still needs to pick out some of his _own _clothes. And some other things. Not room décor – that's Tony's domain. But you know, proven fact, retail therapy is a legitimate way to deal with emotions."

"And who proved that fact?" Steve said with a raised eyebrow, mouth ticking upward in amusement.

"_I _did," Natasha sniffed. "Now go get your shower and get some clothes on, America the Beautiful. We've finally found a use for all your muscles. You can carry the bags."

Looking amused, Steve shot Peter a longsuffering look but nonetheless obediently turned to go take a shower and get himself ready for the day, sans run.

When Bucky appeared minutes later, after Peter had been sitting at the island with silence between them as Natasha cooked, he looked a lot less confused than Steve but a lot more suspicious. Peter caught a knife disappearing…somewhere…when the man saw that it was Natasha at the stove, and Peter had a surreal moment of wondering what exactly Bucky had expected to find when he smelled someone _else _cooking the food. Surely, if an enemy had gotten into their apartment, they wouldn't stop to make some eggs and toast before attacking.

But, that was just Bucky, he decided, and everyone was allowed to have their own little quirks. Even if the quirk was that they were always ready to attack at less than a moment's notice. Hey, Peter wasn't judging – he could stick to walls and webs shot out from his wrists.

"Why are you here?" Bucky growled. Peter couldn't tell if it was out of irritation or if it was sleep coating his voice.

"Good morning to you too, Sunshine," Natasha said dryly, moving the eggs off of the stove. "I'm taking Steve and Peter out shopping. You are going to stay here, take a shower, and have a morning of self-care."

"Self-care," Bucky repeated like the concept was foreign to him.

"Get a massage, binge some TV, hell – you can paint your nails for all I care," Natasha listed off, swiping butter over a piece of toast. "Point is, you are mentally on edge and you need to do something to make you feel better that doesn't include anyone else. Hence, the perfect time for us to go shopping."

Bucky looked lost, confused, and a little panicked, though trying to hide it. "I am functional."

Natasha snorted and glanced over at him, knife in one hand and toast in the other. "That's my _point_, James," she told him. "Do something for you today. Take a mental break. Stop stressing over things you can't help. Steve and I will take care of Peter, and we're going to have fun while doing it, right, Peter?"

Peter nodded quickly, still not totally sure what was going on but guessing that Bucky was probably stressed out and needed a break, and Natasha was forcing him to take it. A moment later, he realized that Bucky must be stressed because of _him _and worrying about _his _issues and it was now taking its toll. He felt a wave of guilt sweep over him at what he was putting the other man through – unintentionally, but still undeniably his fault. He definitely wanted James to feel better, and if he had to leave him alone for a bit it was really the least he could do.

"Fine," Bucky growled, and it was definitely out of irritation this time. "But if he has one _scratch _on him when you return…"

Natasha rolled her eyes as she spooned eggs onto a couple of plates. "He'll be fine," she said firmly. "Now, go. Shower. Feel free to take as long as you want; Steve and Peter are going to shovel down their food, so we'll be gone before you're done in there."

Steve appeared just as Bucky was stalking out of the room, looking a bit concerned at the look on his best friend's face, but it switched to amusement when he saw Natasha's satisfied expression and correctly deduced that Bucky was just irritated with her.

"Eat," Natasha directed both of them as Steve sat down beside Peter and accepted the plate and fork she shoved at him. "We leave in five minutes."

Peter had an odd feeling sweep over him as he sat beside Steve, both of them accepting their food from her, where he felt almost like this could be a family scene of sitting down for breakfast together. The feeling was brushed aside though when he looked down and saw that Peter had the same amount of eggs on his plate as Steve. He blinked at it for a moment, panic sweeping through him that _maybe Natasha had guessed _but when he looked up at Natasha again she was already moving to the frying pan to wash it in the sink.

"Whatever you don't eat, just give it to Steve," she called back to him without turning around. "I didn't know how much to give you, so I just split the dozen in half for each of you."

Peter felt his panic beginning to die down, and he looked over at Steve, who merely winked at him and took a bite of his eggs. He looked supremely unconcerned that maybe Natasha knew, so Peter decided he was just being paranoid. He followed Steve's lead, and took a bite of frankly delicious eggs. He had a feeling that arguing with Natasha was just pointless.

* * *

Peter had been uncertain what exactly to expect from a shopping trip spree with Captain America and Black Widow, but if he had stopped to ponder it, he wouldn't have expected _this_.

It's just…they were so _normal_. It felt a bit like a family trip, with mom and dad leading him into different stores to find clothes that Natasha decided he needed, Steve and Peter sharing longsuffering or disbelieving glances to each other, complete with Steve's "yes, dear" attitude every time Natasha handed him a new bag or led them to another store that was "absolutely unacceptable to miss."

Peter had tried to say that he really didn't need a lot – or anything, really, because he had a full wardrobe already back at the Tower, courtesy of Tony – but Natasha wouldn't hear of it, and pointedly turned away to show that she was ignoring the sign language he was muddling his way through to communicate his thoughts. Steve, looking amused, had simply clapped him on the shoulder and told him that one day, he would learn that it was absolutely impossible to say no to Natasha. So Peter had just sighed to himself and accepted that they would be very busy that day.

Still though, he hadn't expected _this _much. The very first place they had gone was the shoe store, where he had immediately gone to the section with Converse, where he hoped to get a pair or maybe even two that could replace the Van's that had been the go-to for whomever had ordered shoes for him before. Converse were infinitely better than Van's, in his opinion.

But after he had picked up a simple, basic pair of black high tops, Natasha had taken one look at the box before giving him the driest look he had ever seen in his _life_, and grabbed a box of every color they had available, despite his protests. He was pretty sure by that point that she was just doing it to spite him, or maybe to make a point, because when he made the mistake of shrugging noncommittally about whether or not he liked the low tops as well, she had taken this for confirmation and got every color in _that _style, too. Peter left the store with fourteen new pairs of shoes, which he was definitely grateful for but felt a bit excessive. Steve just gave him the most pitying look as he accepted the bags, one that seemed to say he was sorry for Peter's plight but also glad that it wasn't him. Peter could still see Steve's amusement though, and scowled at him playfully. He hoped that Natasha felt she had made her point sufficiently enough there and would calm down at future stores, but he soon learned that that was not the case at _all_. If anything, she seemed to go even _more _crazy with the possibilities. Peter wasn't sure whether she saw him as a poor ex-homeless kid who needed clothes or as a dress-up doll. At this point he wasn't sure it mattered; he was completely at her mercy.

"These aren't meant to just fulfill your needs, Peter," Natasha told him seriously when she saw him chewing his lip as he pondered a rack of nice-casual button-ups. "If we were only getting you necessities, you would be set already. This trip is meant for you to choose things that serve no other purpose than because you _like _them. So only pick things you like."

As hard as that had been to believe – really, they were going through all this trouble for things he didn't even _need_, and things they _knew _he didn't need? – Peter had seen the wisdom in the comment and despite himself began to feel a little bit better. He moved away from the hanging shirts, going toward the display of tee shirts folded on a table, and grabbed one with a horrible science pun that he nonetheless snorted at. He looked unsurely at Natasha, but when she smiled approvingly, he smiled back and picked out a few more.

He didn't _enjoy_ the clothes shopping all that much, but he didn't hate it, either. Natasha was actually pretty chill once she got more comfortable around him. He hadn't noticed that she was _un_comfortable until she began to relax, and suddenly it made sense to Peter, why she had been avoiding him. It seemed strange to think that the Black Widow herself was a bit awkward and unsure with someone new in the "home", but it did make Peter relax a bit more to know that he wasn't the only one having a bit of a time adjusting. Even if change was good, it still took some getting used to. He hoped that Natasha felt better after the day, too, where she could get to know him at least a little bit more.

The best part about the clothes shopping was when Natasha forced Steve into the dressing room with his own selections, and commandeered Peter into helping her judge his looks. It was fun to be on the other side of it after hours of doing it himself, and he actually found his voice _working _a couple of times when he laughed. He was still unable to speak, but laughing at least was some progress, he decided.

Along the way, they also tried several types of food, because Natasha insisted that Steve had yet to experience the full cuisine offered in the twenty-first century, and it was their duty as citizens who'd grown up in it to remedy this terrible injustice. Peter was glad, because he needed constant food throughout the day, and even if Natasha didn't know it Steve did, and it was easier to hide the fact that Peter was eating so much that way. Peter was honestly a little surprised that they were able to successfully hide _anything _from Natasha, let alone the fact that Steve ordered triple everything before giving a third of his to double Peter's own serving. Maybe she was just too excited about shopping, he thought.

After lunch, Natasha led Peter to a hair salon, where apparently he had an appointment to get his hair cut. He could only feel glee at the locks of hair falling to the ground with each snip, and by the end of it he looked into the mirror and for the first time began to feel like _himself_. It wasn't quite the hair style he'd gone for before, but he liked the look, and it was close enough to Before but still different that he felt like maybe he had some hope to start anew. But that old Peter was still in there, reminding him of his presence. For the first time, Peter didn't mind it.

After getting his hair cut, they went into a home store, and at first Peter didn't know why they would be in there because the Tower had plenty of bedding and anything else would probably be considered décor, which would fall under Tony's purview.

But then Natasha led them to a section with big, fuzzy blankets, and…oh, they were _nice_. Peter took a particular liking to a plush royal blue one, which Natasha grabbed off the shelf and shoved into Steve's arms. She then led them to pick up an electric heated blanket as well as a weighted blanket that Peter had always thought were only for autistic people but that Natasha quickly schooled him on when he questioned it. He took the fuzzy blanket from Steve as well as the other two Natasha had picked up, stacking them in his arms as they made their way to check out. He didn't expect that Natasha would grab even _more _blankets as they went that seemed to catch her fancy, but really maybe he should have, considering the experience with the rest of the day.

He didn't feel like he _needed _eight blankets, but they were really nice, anyway, so as he had learned to do over the past few hours, he accepted that Natasha was boss. James would probably like the blankets too, he told himself. Not all of these were for him, and he wouldn't treat them like they were.

As he set them down on the counter at check out, he saw that a Spiderman plush throw was sitting on top of the pile. He blinked at it in confusion, not having noticed that one being put there, and then looked over at Natasha in question, signing a quick, _'why?'_

Natasha shrugged in an innocence Peter was unsure whether or not was faked and said, "You're a fan of Spiderman, and the blanket's cute."

Peter decided to shrug that one off and picked up the bags with the blankets after they were done being scanned. He put the bags in one of the shopping carts that Steve had admitted they probably needed about halfway through their trip. They probably should have gotten three carts, with how much the bags and boxes were piled in on top of each other and how they kept adding to it with each store, but they managed with the two that they had, Steve pushing one and Peter pushing the other.

By the time they were done with their shopping and food exploration, _finally _loading all of their things into the car Tony had sent with Happy (Tony's bodyguard and driver and head of security – Peter wasn't sure which title was the most important), Peter could honestly say that he was feeling a little bit better. It seemed Natasha had been right – retail therapy was the best therapy. He was paraphrasing, but the point was still there.

Now though, after all of that, he was finally feeling tired – _actually _tired, like he might fall asleep this time – and he just wanted to take a nap.

* * *

When Peter got back to his floor, holding a few bags of their purchases and Steve and Natasha both carrying the rest behind him, Bucky met them almost immediately after they got off the elevator. Peter didn't miss the careful eye that Bucky swept over his form, but they all pretended it hadn't happened when the former assassin relaxed just enough for them to notice upon completion of his inspection wherein he determined that Peter was unharmed.

"Let me take those," Bucky said, taking the bags from Peter. "There's some stuff in your room."

Peter didn't notice the look that the three adults shared amongst each other, wordlessly obeying the unspoken command to go see what was in his room. He knew that Bucky was acting kind of weird, but he figured that it was because Bucky had been separated from him for almost twelve hours for the first time since he had moved into the Tower and the change made him nervous.

When he entered his room though, he suddenly understood completely, and his mouth dropped open in shock.

The room had been completely changed. Where before the walls had been a neutral beige, they were now a dark, almost navy blue. The light blue curtains had been exchanged for a deep red with a black border, and there was a matching plush red carpet in the center of the floor. Posters were plastered all over the walls; there was even one that Peter had had Before, with Einstein sticking his tongue out at the camera. One just over his bed boasted the periodic table of elements, but rather than actual scientific elements, Star Wars characters filled in the spots. The dark-grained wood book shelf of before had been replaced with a matte black one, and it was now _filled _with all manner of books, including science textbooks in every category as well as some fiction that had been among some of Peter's favorites before he'd had to get rid of them when he'd first gone to the group home. The bedside table was similarly replaced to match the bookshelf, and on top was a stack of comic books that Peter itched to get his hands on. A single shelf had been installed over his bed, and it wrapped around the wall where there was room, forming an "L" above his head. On the shelf were various other books and action figures and knick knacks that Peter had had before, as well as some new ones that he had been saving up for before he'd had to abandon them all. Although they weren't the exact same ones he'd had before, he still felt that same familiarity and love for the familiar figures when he saw them.

"Oh good, he left us some room for your new stuff," he heard Natasha say in an unimpressed voice behind him, and he blinked out of his amazement to see that the woman had come in casually to put some of the stuff away. She opened one of the drawers of the black dresser in the corner, beginning to take some of the clothes out of the bags and put them away.

Turning his head, he saw both Steve and Bucky smiling at him knowingly, and couldn't even bother to try wiping the gobsmacked expression off his face. They had distracted him today, so that – so that all of _this _could be done. For _him_. And he knew that it was Tony who had done it, because everyone knew that he was the interior designer, and he just couldn't wrap his head around the fact that this meant that he _cared_. More than just about someone he could do science with, but as a _person_. As _Peter_. He had paid attention to what Peter liked, and he couldn't see a single thing in the room that he wouldn't have picked out for himself.

Well, he might not have gone to paint his walls so dark himself, but he couldn't deny that it somehow _worked_, and he liked it.

He sat on the bed, feeling like his legs couldn't hold him up anymore. This had been the best day ever, and it only got _better_. Even the new blue blanket felt so soft against his skin, and he really liked all the new blankets he'd gotten today.

Bucky and Steve were going to help hang up some of the clothes in the closet, but Peter remained sitting on the bed, just staring around in amazement at all of the new things that were given to _him_, for no other purpose than because he would like them.

Later, when they left him to get a quick nap before dinner, he pulled back the comforter, and jumped, startled when he saw underneath.

And then, a moment later, he laughed. Because the sheets now covering his mattress weren't a neutral, solid color, but they still matched the rest of the room, upon reflection. Because the sheets were completely red, the same red as the curtains and the rug, with little black spiders printed all over. Tony had gotten him Spiderman sheets.

* * *

Maybe Peter should have expected it, all things considered, but somehow he found himself surprised when Sam finally ended up cornering him.

Well, "cornering" might have been a bit of a strong word for it, because they were just sitting in the communal living room after lunch, when Tony was in a meeting and Clint and Natasha were on a mission – something about Hydra mutterings – and Bucky was in therapy and Steve was taking some time to finish up a painting he'd been working on for a few weeks now, and so it was just him, alone with Sam. But it was still the communal living room, where everything was open and there was still the chance that someone might walk in, so really, he wasn't trapped.

Still, Peter found himself _feeling _cornered when Sam finally broached the topic that had clearly been on his mind for a bit.

"I'm not saying that you have to," Sam told Peter when he saw the look that was probably on his face. Peter wasn't sure exactly what he saw, but what _he _was feeling was self-loathing that someone had _noticed_, never mind that it was a little obvious that he had some kind of problems, considering that he was selectively mute, rather than anything being physically wrong with him. He was also feeling a bit of panic, not knowing how to react to the statement, because he didn't _want _to but what if that was a stipulation of staying here?

"I'm not even saying that we mind that you don't speak," Sam continued, his voice and accompanying expression unbearably understanding. "You can go the rest of your life without saying another word, and it won't make a difference to us. I'm just saying that there are some underlying concerns and issues, and maybe going to therapy, talking to someone about it who doesn't know you – it might help you. And we all want you to feel better."

Peter gnawed on his bottom lip nervously, unsure how to react. He didn't know Sam that well, sure, but he did still care about him and he didn't want to disappoint him, even if he knew that Sam would understand with his seemingly endless wells of patience. Sam was like a rock – definitive, sure, and willing to call you on your shit. He wasn't afraid of snark and teasing insults, but as soon as real arguments started he was the first one to move to calm it down. Peter liked him – he reminded him sometimes of Uncle Ben.

But he really didn't want to talk to a therapist. Besides the fact that he couldn't actually _talk_, the most important things that he _could _talk about were related in some way to him being Spiderman, and he couldn't reveal himself to someone else, let alone a stranger.

And he knew that Sam meant well, but the man really had no idea what was going on in Peter's head. Peter knew that he would be just fine without a therapist. After all, he'd talked a little bit before, hadn't he? He'd get fine on his own – he didn't need anyone else's help.

He couldn't communicate all of this to Sam though, who wasn't as fluent in sign language as Clint or Bucky or Steve were. And it was tiring to spell everything out.

So, he decided to give Sam something that he wanted to hear (well, _see_), and simply tapped a finger to his head in a gesture for, "I'll think about it."

Sam smiled at him, and Peter was certain that he wasn't imagining the carefully hidden worry in the older man's eyes.

"That's good, Peter," Sam told him. "If you decide to give it a go, let someone know and they can help you find someone who's a good match for you. And even if you don't want to talk with a therapist, remember that you can talk with any of us. We don't have degrees or qualifications, but I hope you know we _are _your friends, and we'll help as much as we can."

Peter smiled weakly at the man, but he knew inwardly that he would never try talking to someone about the mess of problems in his head. He could deal with it on his own.

* * *

**No, Peter. You need help, Spider-baby. Go to your family!**

**Sorry (but also not really) about all that has gone down with Deadpool. I promise it will all be okay...but we won't be seeing him for a little bit. Other things are coming up. ;)**


	17. Chapter 17

**I'm still dying of this stupid cold, so I had some time to type out another chapter. Yay!**

* * *

Bucky was constantly worried about Peter.

He accepted it by now, honestly. Peter didn't exactly have the best track record with returning back safe and sound, but normally it had been something Bucky knew how to deal with. He was homeless and hungry? Sad, but he could bring him food on his run so he didn't starve to death. He fell off a roof? Alarming, but he could patch up the bruises and cuts and broken bones and bring him exorbitant amounts of food while he healed. He came back totally stoned and acting out of character? Okay, so not something he would _hope _would happen to the kid, and certainly not something he would be happy with Peter trying recreationally, but he could keep the kid fed and make sure he didn't stop breathing.

But last time Peter had come back…there _were _no visible injuries. He had seen Peter's nervousness before he'd gone out to patrol, but he had supposed that there was some planned bust that night, or something – something that he needed to get to. Upon his return, he had looked…absolutely gutted was the best, most descriptive term he could think of.

At first he had supposed that perhaps someone had died. Maybe Peter thought it was his fault – he had a complex like that. Steve had the same complex; Bucky knew how to recognize it.

But that just didn't seem right. Peter had gone completely silent once again upon his return – not even a sound escaping. Maybe that had something to do with how he hardly smiled anymore, let alone laughed, but Bucky felt certain that it was more than that. Peter seemed like he was…like he was _grieving_. About something personal, he suspected.

And Bucky didn't know what to do with that. He didn't know what had upset Peter so much; he couldn't even get him to sign to him what was wrong. Peter clearly didn't want to tell what had happened.

So Bucky couldn't patch up any physical injuries. He couldn't shovel more food onto his plate and into his mouth to make him better, though he certainly made a valiant effort. In the first three days alone he discovered and made eight new recipes to push off onto Peter and anyone who happened to be sitting nearby.

And aside from that, he just…watched. Waited. He wanted to demand what was wrong, what he could do, maybe even who he needed to kill…but he knew how overbearing Steve could be when he worried about _him_, and he didn't want Peter to feel overwhelmed with that. He stood in the corner of whatever room Peter was in, making sure that Peter was safe and healthy and comfortable. If Peter finally broke at one point, whether it was to tell someone what was wrong and what had happened or if it was just to need a shoulder to cry on, Bucky was ready and waiting for whatever Peter might need.

He supposed that that was why Natalia – _no, her name is Natasha now _– had decided to take Peter and Steve out shopping. He could admit, at least to himself, that he was a bit high-strung in his worry for Peter in that week following whatever had happened when he'd gone out patrolling as Spiderman. He did _not _agree though, that he needed to be away from Peter to feel better. That wasn't going to help at _all_.

But Peter had nodded at him, looking like maybe he wanted some space from Bucky for a bit, and that was the only reason he had agreed. Besides, he knew logically that Natasha would care for the kid and would die before she let anything hurt him. It's just telling his heart that that was the problem.

At least Steve was going with them too, though, he had thought to himself at the time. Because he was the only other one who knew that Peter was Spiderman, and he could help him keep his secret safe, in case any problems arose. People often underestimated how sneaky Steve could be, and how well he could lie. They got so caught up in the wholesome image of Captain America that hadn't diminished in the least over the decades but only got stronger and grew into a legend – and it made them forget that underneath it all, there was the man who had lied on his enlistment forms five times before he made it in. Steve Rogers was no innocent flower.

It certainly helped people believe him more easily when he trolled them, though.

And Bucky hadn't known what he would do when they were gone. He had indeed taken a long shower – at least for him – and had just been considering asking JARVIS what one did in a "self care day" when JARVIS himself had informed him that Tony wanted to come up to the apartment.

Not knowing what it was Tony wanted, Bucky had slightly suspiciously given his consent, and after pulling on a shirt and gone out to the elevator to meet the man.

Tony had breezed in with his normal bounce and slightly manic attitude, and had informed him that they were decorating Peter's room today, and it needed to be done before the kid got back from shopping, which should be a while considering that Natasha was the one running it and she knew what Tony had planned, but anyway did Bucky want to help at all or did he want to sit in the corner and glare at everyone while they went about their work?

Normally Bucky might have been offended by the brash, presumptuous attitude that Tony presented himself with, but at that moment Bucky was just relieved that he was being given something to do.

He hadn't helped with the painting, only watching the workers from a spot out of the way but where he had clear sight lines if they tried any funny business. He expertly hid the Spidey suit that had spilled from Peter's backpack in the closet from the night before, and was certain that not even Tony noticed the maneuver.

Tony had been surprisingly more involved than Bucky had expected, putting on a work shirt and stained jeans and getting right next to the painters with his own rolling brush, and then taking charge at putting the shelf into the wall. It was Tony and three others, and Bucky found himself surprised that really what took the longest was waiting for the paint to dry. He supposed that was why they did that part first.

Bucky helped Tony and one of the other guys who introduced himself as Aaron in setting up the bookshelves and putting the items on them. Tony took charge of placing a bunch of action figures on the shelf on the wall with a precision and some kind of order that Bucky couldn't hope to understand but seemed to work out, if Tony's satisfied expression was anything to go by when he stepped back to admire it.

All in all, it took about eleven hours to finish everything, and the last hour was spent with Tony neurotically adjusting and readjusting various things around the room into the best possible angle that he thought Peter would be happy with. Personally Bucky didn't think that Peter would care whether the stack of comics on the bedside table was stacked neatly or fanned out artfully, but he let Tony do whatever he wanted.

And when Peter finally saw the room, Tony having backed out to give Peter some space to prevent him from feeling overwhelmed with so many people, Bucky was glad that Tony had been so thoughtful and insistent on designing the room. Peter looked stunned and amazed and incredibly grateful, and when Peter went to seek Tony out to hug him in gratitude, Bucky allowed himself his own smile, too.

After that, Peter didn't necessarily get better or more talkative, but Bucky thought that he might be feeling a bit calmer, more secure in his place there. The shopping trip definitely seemed to have broken down the barriers between Peter and Natasha, which caused the redhead to come by more often to pull Peter out and to the common floor, where he could interact with others more.

Bucky appreciated that, most days. He knew that Peter needed people around him to force him out of his shell – people he could trust to have in his corner. And he personally didn't feel ready to see more people at that point – it still made him nervous and jittery, like he was just containing the Soldier beneath the surface. It was better for all involved that Natasha was observant and proactive – not to mention protective.

Sometimes though, it was nice for it to be just Bucky and Peter, and sometimes Bucky and Peter and Steve. It was quieter, but still comfortable. It helped Bucky feel better too, to be able to see Peter and reassure himself that the kid was safe.

But he knew that there was still something bugging the young super hero, and it wasn't something that could just go away with some video games and cooking and whatever else the others did with Peter when Bucky wasn't there. Something had hurt Peter, and hurt him deeply – and Bucky didn't know the first thing about how to go about helping to heal that hurt. He hardly knew how to deal with his own hurts of the past seventy years, let alone someone else's.

He wished he knew what had happened that night that Peter had come back looking devastated. But JARVIS wasn't sharing video satellite security to help him figure it out, which Bucky couldn't honestly begrudge him for. JARVIS had done the same thing for him in the past, after all, when he had first come to the Tower and Steve had wanted to follow him around and/or watch him at all times.

It was still frustrating, though. He just wanted to _help_, but he didn't know _how_.

And so he did the best he could, and just tried showing Peter how safe and cared for and loved he was in the Tower.

* * *

It took some time, and no small amount of effort on Peter's part, but he eventually figured out that he was okay with typing out his responses and other things he might say out loud into a tablet for others to read. Others meaning Bucky. And sometimes Steve. Not usually anyone else – his heart started racing and he began to feel sick even when he was trying to type out a "thank you" to Tony when he had given him the StarkTab. (Tony had shushed him and told him not to worry about it, that he had become fluent in sign language since last week anyway and he could understand Peter only wanting to communicate that way for now. The rest would come with time, he assured him, and Peter really couldn't help but believe him, because this was Tony Stark telling him these things and what reason would he have to lie?)

In any case, Peter appreciated the tool, because it was faster than trying to spell things out with his hands, as he was still learning the sign language and while he would consider himself fluent as far as knowing the language went, he wasn't fluent in that he could do it speedily. That would come with time and more practice.

Also, it helped to get exact feelings and thoughts across more clearly to Bucky and to Steve, so it was more comfortable in that aspect, too. Peter relished in the freedom that came with being able to type out an entire story without getting tired, and he unwittingly found himself growing closer to Bucky and Steve because of it. Sure, he'd stopped talking because cutting off clear communication was an easy way to cut off relationships before they could happen, but he'd never…

Peter stopped his thoughts in their tracks right there, slowly putting down the spoon back into his bowl of cereal. His mouth dropped open in surprise and he stared off into the middle distance, rewinding and replaying his previous thoughts again.

_He'd stopped talking because cutting off clear communication was an easy way to cut off relationships before they could happen._

He had known, before, that his lack of speech had been a safety mechanism – for himself, and for others. But never before had he realized in such stark black and white what it was he was doing, and _why _he was doing it.

Now though, with the help from the others but most especially from Bucky and Steve, he could look back with a clearer vision and realize just what hole he'd fallen into and refused to climb out of, having decided it was where he'd live for the foreseeable future.

Blinking quickly at the realization of how much he'd well and truly shot himself in the foot, he tightened his lips for a moment before looking down into the by now soggy bowl of corn flakes. He turned his thoughts over in his mind once again, tasting them again and prodding at any possible discrepancies, but finding his conclusion to turn out the same every time.

He hadn't spoken with Wa – with Deadpool. And somehow, they had still turned out to be friends. Maybe. That one was still kind of up in the air, and Peter didn't know how to deal with that, so he moved on to the next one: Bucky. He hadn't spoken with Bucky at first either, and now here he was, on friendly enough terms that he was _living _with him. He hadn't spoken with any of the other Avengers, and yet still they – they _wanted _to be around him, spend time with him. Like friends did.

So really, being mute wasn't changing anything, and it probably wouldn't in the future, either. So…he may as well speak. Because it was really just much too difficult to go around with this – this _handicap_. Very inconvenient. And Peter _could _speak, of course – he had when he was stoned, so the ability wasn't taken away. So he should just…decide to speak now, and go back to normal, and all would be well.

Determination lighting within him, he clutched his spoon more tightly in his fingers, opening his mouth and lips forming sound that would become words.

"M-m…" Panic clawed at his throat, trying to squeeze his vocal chords silent again, and he fought harder even as tears sprang to his eyes. "M-my…nnn…" It was hardly more than a whisper, and he clenched his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, determined to get the words out. He was alone – why should this even be frightening?

"…nn-ame…"

His throat was beginning to ache, and his heart was pounding in his ears. Why was this so difficult? Speaking shouldn't be difficult, especially after he had decided and firmly told himself that it didn't matter. It wasn't something he should be this scared of.

"M-my…name…" Peter whispered fiercely to himself, determined to get through a single sentence. Wetness splashed against his clenched hand, but he hardly noticed through the spots blooming in the darkness behind his scrunched eyes.

"…is…P-p-p…" he swallowed as he stuttered over the first part of his name. Too much stuttering – start over, he chastised himself.

"My…n-name…is…Peter…P-Parker."

At last the tears flowed freely down his cheeks, but this time they were tears of relief as his tight grip on the spoon finally relaxed. He'd done it. He'd said a full sentence, all by himself, without having to be out of his mind on drugs to do it. He almost snorted at the thought, but he was too busy sobbing to manage it. He felt practically giddy with his success, because it had been so long since he had managed to do the once simple act of speaking.

He knew it wasn't the end. He knew that he would still need to try a lot harder to be able to have a conversation with people, especially considering how this experiment had gone just when he was alone. But still he felt pleased that he had managed to make this first step, because as Sam had said once, the first step was the most important.

He just needed to keep going.

* * *

Steve had thought at first that something was wrong with Peter. He'd been in his art studio, getting some time in while the light in mid afternoon was at the perfect angle through the window and he hadn't been busy with anything else, when he had heard choked sounds coming from the direction of the kitchen, where he had heard Peter puttering around for the last few minutes. He had immediately abandoned his painting, moving toward the door to go to the boy, when an altogether different sound broke through the beating of his heart in his ears.

He'd never heard Peter's voice before. He'd heard him laugh, once, that night when Bucky had made lasagna and caused the rest of them to get into a heated argument that was really just ridiculous, and he had treasured the sound close to his chest and may or may not have asked JARVIS to save a copy of the recording for when he was having a rough day himself and wanted to hear the sweet sound.

A combination of familiarity with that laugh, as well as the fact that he knew already that it was just Peter out there (Natasha had come and kidnapped Bucky an hour ago to get in a workout after a particularly grueling therapy session) meant that he knew it was Peter – speaking.

He stopped instantly in his tracks, blinking quickly against the sudden swell of emotion in his chest. He moved silently to the door, leaning in closely enough that he could hear Peter's whispered struggles to get out the sentence.

His heart tripped with fondness, and he ached to go out and lend Peter support and encouragement, but somehow he kept himself in check, knowing that this was something Peter would only be comfortable trying when he thought he was alone and that no one could hear him. He had probably forgotten about Steve's enhanced hearing, but Steve wasn't about to bull-in-a-china-shop his way in there and frighten him back into silence again.

He beamed with pride when he heard Peter finally manage to stumble his way through a sentence. He felt like a proud father, watching his son make his first steps. He wished Bucky was there, that he could've heard the amazing progress that Peter had made, all on his own.

When his best friend came back, he couldn't wait to tell him.

* * *

As Sam continued to explain to Peter, recovery wasn't linear. Some days he made leaps and bounds in his progress, while other days he reverted back to silence. The important thing, Sam stressed constantly, was that he still tried, that he took things day by day, and even if he only managed to brush his teeth that day that it was something to be proud of.

"It doesn't matter how you were 'before'," Sam told him, even though Peter hadn't shared his thoughts on that front. "Don't compare yourself to your past – that's not who you are anymore. Focus on who you are today, and what you want to become."

Peter wondered if Sam was actually psychic, because those had been the kind of thoughts he'd been having ever since that day two weeks ago where he'd been so proud of himself for being able to speak. He used to snark and chatter away at the villains and bad guys he took down as Spiderman, and now he could only gesture. It was something that constantly bothered him, because he _used _to be able to talk all he wanted, and he kicked himself for his stupidity in being so proud for getting out five words. And even then, they'd been slow and stuttered and he felt like such a fool for thinking it was something to be proud of.

But Sam didn't think it was stupid. And maybe just the fact that Peter hadn't shared any of these thoughts or feelings with the dark-skinned man was proof that other people felt the same way as he did, from time to time. In any case, Sam's words _did _help him to feel more validated, and better about himself, and when he found those thoughts of self-doubt and hatred creeping in, he kicked those thoughts to the curb with recalled memories of what Sam had told him.

It helped, he decided. He couldn't talk in full sentences around others – not without throwing in a few words in sign language to interrupt the sentence long enough to get his mind calmed so that he could speak again. It provided for some doubtlessly odd-sounding conversations, but the rest of the Avengers took it with their usual aplomb that was necessary in their line of work.

He wished that his speaking that first time would have just…opened the floodgates and he could've gone back to Normal, to how he was Before, but Sam told him that it wasn't like that. The trauma was still there, and he still needed to work through it. (Not that anyone – even Bucky – actually _knew _what that trauma was, but they weren't stupid. They knew it was there.) And working through it would take time.

Sometimes, Peter mused that although he had declined seeing a therapist, Sam had taken it upon himself to be something of a therapist for him. Peter thought that that was against some kind of rule in their license, but then he wasn't really sure if Sam actually _had _a license or if he had just volunteered at the VA and used his own experiences to help others. In any case, he liked Sam more than he thought he would a therapist, and Sam was cool and not stuffy like therapists always were on TV, so he didn't mind accepting the help and the listening ear that Sam offered.

Also, his face when Steve beat him in Mario Kart _again _was always hilarious.

* * *

Bucky had decided that he and Peter needed to go out, get some fresh air, just the two of them. Peter had happily accepted, because if Bucky was inviting him to go somewhere then it had to be because he _wanted _to, right? He had worried recently that Bucky saw him as a burden now that he was there more often, and that Peter was being harmful to his mental health by his presence. He still remembered how Natasha had separated them for the shopping trip, saying that Bucky needed some self-care, and he had tried staying out of the other man's way for the most part to try and ease his burden a bit.

But the invitation clearly meant that he wanted to spend some time with Peter, just the two of them, and Peter couldn't help the happy giddiness that swept through him as he ran to get a pair of his Converse to go out.

They went to a diner about a mile away from the Tower, walking the distance to enjoy the warmth that early July brought with it. When they had arrived at the homey-feeling place with its mismastched chairs and faded and torn booths, Bucky had challenged him to a competition who could eat more. He informed him that he could spend the rest of the day there, but the one to have eaten the most when they left was the winner. Peter had raised an eyebrow at him, but hadn't bothered to ask about the penalty. It would probably be something frankly ridiculous, and it didn't really matter, because Peter knew that he would win, anyway.

They indeed ended up spending several hours there, and Peter paced himself so that he didn't get sick throughout it. They enjoyed some idle talking and signing in equal measure between them, and Peter didn't even want to look at the check when the waitress came back with it at closing. Bucky scanned the receipt, counting what each of them had eaten, and Peter was smug at the fact that he had indeed won, by an entire appetizer. He didn't think Bucky was all that upset about it either, just quirking a smile up at him as he signed his name on the receipt in quick, short strokes. Peter was just glad that the waitress hadn't given them any odd looks, taking it as normal that the two had been there for so long, continuing to order as they went. Bucky had told him that he'd been here before with Steve, so perhaps that was why she was unsurprised, even at this new addition. In any case, she couldn't quite manage to hide her delight at the no doubt hefty tip that Bucky had added at the end in thanks, so Peter didn't feel too bad about them having been there for literally her entire shift.

It was easy, Peter decided, being with Bucky. Bucky didn't have expectations of him – _for _him, yes, but that was different. Peter knew that Bucky wanted him to be happy, but he also knew that Bucky's love for him wasn't conditional on his abilities or on his age or anything.

He was still hurt at Deadpool's reaction, of course, and he had yet to see him since that night six weeks ago now, but the hurt was soothed by Bucky's presence – and the other Avengers that tried to help him, but mostly Bucky. He trusted Bucky more than anyone else, and even if Deadpool never talked to him again (a possibility that was becoming more probable with every day that passed without seeing him) he knew that he would still have Bucky.

"Thank you," Peter blurted to Bucky as they walked back to the Tower at a casual, easy pace.

Bucky groaned theatrically and rubbed his stomach. "You only say that because you _won_," he groused, even though Peter wasn't thanking him just for the food, or even just for the outing. Bucky's face softened into a smile a moment later though, and he swayed to the side, bumping Peter's shoulder in silent acknowledgement of understanding for what Peter was thanking him for.

"Now, it's only nine o' clock, and much too early for bed," Bucky declared decisively. "I'm thinking we take a night in, and binge some _Addams Family _while slowly becoming one with the couch." He looked down at Peter inquiringly. "Unless you're planning on swinging tonight?"

Peter thought for a moment. He had gone patrolling the past two nights, and he was really stuffed full enough that the thought of lounging about did truly sound appealing.

So, he shook his head and said, "TV – sounds good." His speech was still a bit broken, but it was easier with just Bucky there. The hoard of New Yorkers passing in either direction around them was inconsequential – to them, he was just a kid out with his dad, and took no notice of him. It made it easier to believe it was just he and Bucky there.

Bucky smiled, pleased with Peter's decision. They'd been watching the old animated _Addams Family _episodes, because Peter had only ever seen the live action movies and Bucky obviously hadn't watched them in his time as the Winter Soldier. Somehow, the dark and yet quirky and ridiculous humor appealed to both of them in a way that Steve just didn't understand. That was alright, though. When Steve wanted to watch things with them, he found humor in _Married With Children_.

When they got back to the Tower, it was just as well that they had planned a Bucky-and-Peter night, because Steve wasn't even going to be there.

"Damned _dinosaurs_," Steve groaned in explanation when Bucky and Peter got off on the common floor, because that was where JARVIS had taken them. It had a better TV than the one in their room, and they assumed it was free because JARVIS had taken them there instead. When the doors had opened, the rest of them were looking at their phones where the information had come in what they needed to fight, the flashing purple Avengers alert lights just turning off. (Peter had been confused why the lights were purple at first, because surely red or orange would have been more traditional for an emergency, but Tony had mentioned how those colors in terms of flashing lights each had bad connotations for at least one of them, and Clint had suggested purple when they'd moved in, and the rest had been history.)

"I swear, sometimes I think I'm so far in the future it's like the forties didn't really exist," Steve said with a sigh as he pocketed his phone. "And then something like this happens, and I think that surely it was _back _in time that I woke up in."

"Nope, this is still the twenty-first century," Tony said gleefully as they moved to the elevator to go to their respective floors to suit up. "_Dinosaurs_!"

_Haven't you seen the Jurassic movies? _Peter signed to Steve teasingly, needing to communicate quickly and not having time to steel himself to speak.

"That's true," Steve sighed. "Guess it's still the right century, after all. What happened to the days where _I _was the weirdest thing science had ever created?"

"Don't be a stick in the mud, Steven!" Tony chastised, looking much too excited and bouncing around like an excited puppy. "We get to see real, _actual _dinosaurs!"

"That have been created by Hydra scientists," Steve said dryly, stepping up next to him in the elevator and moving aside to make room for Sam, Clint, and…where was Natasha? Oh, well, Peter decided after looking around and not seeing her. She had probably done her spy thing and just _disappeared_, because he knew he'd seen her when the elevator doors had first opened.

"And I'd rather go to Virginia Beach for some vacation, not _dinosaurs_," Sam agreed, crossing his arms as he stepped in next to Steve.

"Call if you need anything!" Steve called as the doors were closing. Bucky just gave a thumbs up in agreement.

Once they were gone, Peter looked over into the common room, where Mario Kart had been paused on the TV and bags of popcorn had been abandoned on the couches as they had moved quickly to get out.

"Well, we've got the whole space to ourselves," Bucky smirked victoriously, as though he had been the one to orchestrate the rest of the Avengers' departure. Peter just shrugged and plopped down on the couch. A moment later, Bucky dropped next to him, shoving a bag of potato chips out of the way so he wouldn't squish them.

"JARVIS, would you bring up the next episode of _Addams Family_?" Bucky requested to the air.

"Certainly," the AI agreed, and a moment later the theme was playing across the screen. Peter settled in further into the couch, feeling content.

As they continued watching the TV, Peter's thoughts drifted, and he found himself thinking about the past several weeks living at the Tower. He thought about just a year ago, when he had first become homeless, and he hadn't yet met any of the Avengers or even Deadpool. He wondered how he would have reacted if someone had told him what was going to happen over the course of just four months, beginning with meeting a jogger at his bench and ending with him sitting practically snuggled in next to the former Winter Soldier, feeling – well, feeling _safe_.

Because that's what it came down to, really. Feeling happy began with feeling safe, and Peter could honestly say right then that he was happier than he had been in a good while. It was an odd feeling, one he wasn't used to, and he knew that he had the man next to him to thank for that. He didn't have to worry about where his next meal was going to come from, or if he could stay warm enough in some cold winter night, or even whether or not someone would notice or care if he died. Not just Spiderman – him, Peter.

If anyone wanted to see the proof of how much better he was doing now, they only needed to look at his forearms. Rather than the raw, swollen, rash-looking appearance they'd been sporting for so long, they now looked merely like he had scratched them a bit too much with his fingernails, like the red could fade away in just a few hours. It didn't burn like an infected cut when he used his webs now – only stung a bit, like getting an immunization. Peter looked forward to the day when his arms were perfectly smooth and pale again – and he knew that they would, living here.

He was pretty sure he'd filled out a bit more too, put some meat on his bones, because his clothes seemed to fit him better and he could only see his ribs when he inhaled, rather than all the time. His lizard brain was pleased with this too, because it told him that if he was ever in a dire situation as he was months before, he would have a bit longer before he got weaker again. He told himself that he didn't need to worry about that, though – the rest of them had no intention of kicking him to the curb, he was certain of that now. But still. Just in case.

Bucky turned his head to meet Peter's eyes, and Peter blinked, not having noticed that in his thoughts his gaze had wandered to look at Bucky. Bucky looked amused at his surprise.

"Something on your mind, kiddo?" he said humorously.

Peter huffed out a small, silent chuckle through his nose, feeling a bit sheepish. But he _did _want to share his thoughts with Bucky, and he wanted to try doing it with words, so he met his gaze and opened his mouth to speak.

Before even the smallest sound could escape him, the TV and the lights suddenly shut off completely, the sound of them shutting off very suddenly jarring. Peter startled, eyes adjusting to the darkness even as the purple emergency lights flicked on.

"JARVIS?" Bucky called out warily, body tense beside him.

The silence was eerie; Peter hadn't even noticed the humming of the refrigerator or the electricity powering the lights until it was gone, and the Tower seemed dead without it. JARVIS didn't answer Bucky's query, and Peter's spidey sense began ringing dully in the back of his mind, putting him on edge.

A moment later, Peter had just enough time to see Bucky's expression go cold and blank even as Peter's spidey sense shrieked, before there was a dull _thud_ on the window. A blinding flash, and the window exploded inward.


End file.
